This fragment is a seventh level mature sage – second life at current level, likely will be old soul soon. Kathleen is in the power mode with a goal of growth. An idealist, she is in the moving part of intellectual centre.

Body type is Venus/Mercury.

Kathleen’s primary chief feature is arrogance and the secondary martyrdom.

The fragment Kathleen is seventh-cast in seventh cadence; she is a member of greater cadence six – very cardinal. Kathleen’s entity is four, cadre six, greater cadre 5, pod 408.

Kathleen’s essence twin is a sage and her task companion is an artisan.

This next dream does reflect the beauty of being in the company of spiritually evolved souls. Said dream was the first on Monday, June 17, 1991, whilst the Moon transited both Virgo and my fourth house – close enough to the summer solstice.

Interestingly enough, there was a dream within the dream in question. This was one of the most rhapsodic and uplifting dreams had during my fourth decade of life.

I was going out from this apartment block’s front door. I was aware that in apartment 6, down the hall, the door was slightly opened.

I could hear some classical music being played and tried to figure out who the composer was. It was very complex music. I went down to the front door of the building, unusually enough, to call Whoopi.

However, I had decided not to open the door to call her because if I were to have called her there, I wouldn’t have wanted her to then start showing up at that door to be let in.

I had noticed, on the way to the door, a whole stack of mail outside the door to one of the apartments here. It was a door, which sat in the middle of the hallway wall, where there shouldn’t have been a door.

Stranger still, it was brown unlike the other four doors which were white. So at that, I decided to walk under the ground floor by going down into the basement.

Whilst I was going, I was still listening and then heard Kathleen Battle being introduced on the radio… She was going to sing.

As I was walking, Whoopi appeared in the basement as I headed for the backdoor of the building. She began playfully running amongst all the many boxes stacked high in the basement. From time to time, the adorable cat would run ahead of me and was quite playful.

Kathleen Battle† then began to sing and, my dear sweethearts, greater music has never been woven in the waking state. The music was highly complex indeed. It was supremely divine.

The aria this woman sang and the beauty of her voice was supremely stellar. It was dignified; it was divine. It was so beautiful that, as I walked and Whoopi joyously played, my body became healed to have heard this music.

At that, I hurried Whoopi upstairs into the apartment and took to lying in the bed to more intently listen to the music. There was much talk afterwards about the music.

There was a White man around and I was being told by him that this music was, in fact, not native to this world. The music was not native to Earth, he claimed.

I certainly agreed with the information. It galactically towered above any of this world’s greatest music to date.

Also, lying on the bed with me was a girl. She deliberately was forcefully putting her feet down the bed and was trying to put them in my face as I lay in my bed with my head at the foot. She was White and I was just too into the high just experienced with the glorious music to have had time to go fighting with anyone.

Later on, I went out to wait for a bus. Yet here too, at the closest bus stop, the music kept on playing. It simply permeated the fabric of the dream experience.

*Of course, it should come as no surprise that all throughout sleep, the radio here in the waking state was on in the room whilst I slept dreaming. END.

However, the music being filtered into the dreamtime had been considerably transformed. Here it was uplifted and expressed in a superior light which befitted the dreamtime’s magic.

The radio being on became my leap off point to experience some truly uplifting moments in the dreamtime. Though CBC FM was playing classical music, at the time of my dreaming, the galactic music that I was hearing far outdistanced the familiarity of classical music by light years.

It was so complex and cerebral that as I stood there, at the bus stop, I suspected it was the classical music created by cetaceans. I speculated that a pod of dreaming cetaceans was weaving their music, in the classical idiom, in the dreamtime.

I merely happened to have tuned into it, whilst the waking state music served as the leap off point, for vicariously entering the cetaceans’ dream dimensions. This was so much more complex than classical music.

It was an intellectual high beyond belief. Kathleen Battle, throughout it all, kept on singing. It blew me away, to contemplate the amount of breath work involved in Ms. Battle singing that complexly and for that length of time.

There was a guy when I got onto the bus which was like the double-deckers of London. I was on the lower level, in the middle section, looking back to the rear.

On the same side, as I was seated, there was a guy there who seemed very familiar. He was aware of me in the same soul-resonant way that I was him. However, we did not interact.

Across from him, there was a rowdy guy who seemed drunk. The police had come and taken him to the front of the bus to take him away. Interestingly enough, the police wore the uniform of the London Bobbies with the hat and the whole gear.

When I got to where I was going, it was a wonderful, wonderful, wonderful tropical island with a beautiful mountain range. There were two large homes and I was told that both of these homes were, in fact, owned by Kathleen Battle.

This was where she retired to recharge her batteries.

‘How fine, indeed,’ I thought.

There was a party being thrown for her by marvellous celebrities. It was then that I recalled having been at a concert earlier prior to going out and taking the bus.

It was either at Salzburg or Bayreuth. When Ms. Battle was onstage, she wore a blue dress that billowed in the breeze which created a wonderfully hypnotic slow-motion effect.

She had more fucking-goddamn fire planets in this dream, I can assure you, than Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis does with her six fire planets no less. Kathleen Battle possessed, in this briefly recalled dream within a dream, great spiritualism.

She sang and what she was doing with her voice was nothing short of magic. She was as if the ocean because each note was so liquid, time-stretched yet complex. There were more nuances worked into each note than is, in the waking state, humanly imaginable.

It was not unlike all the funky innuendo that a female Jazz singer can cram into one little song. It was absolutely incredible what she was doing.

When she was done, the house went wild. Everybody here was so spiritually elevated. I was up in the balcony, on the right side of the stage and I screamed down bravo with thunderously deafening passion. My ecstatic celebration made all the people close to me laugh with enjoyment at my rapture.

As I lay asleep, my body simultaneously began zinging and tremblingly with energy as I thunderously shouted, ‘Bravo’. When articulating my passion, I had shoved out my neck and at that my neck began elongating.

My overjoyed face moved possessed as my voice operatically roared from my soul itself. My face ended up snaking down through the air, from the balcony to the stage, my neck like some exquisite anaconda swimming through the air bearing my proudly ecstatic face.

My face was peeled wide-open with ecstasy. Indeed, the fire in my eyes was just phenomenal. This dream was inordinately empowering.

It was as though I had become truly animated with a hyper-elongated neck and my face was not unlike the faces of those spiritually elevated and regal ladies that I had recently dreamt of.

Also, I was quite certain that my warping behaviour in this dream had been much inspired by the eloquence of physique that these strangely beautiful women had presented me with their august bodies in another dream of days earlier.

To have best expressed the gratitude that I felt, from my very soul itself, it was as if my neck had become a giraffe’s. Here I was looming down over the house and up to the stage.

To begin with, in all of this, I had not even been seated at the front of the balcony. My ‘bravo’ was a very long, extended, purely male-energied war cry. This was pride in this woman that had nothing to do with our shared race of being both Black rather our both being human.

I was simply applauding her very soul itself for its great achievement in artistic self-expression. In point of fact, I actually got a high from hearing the thunder of my voice when saying bravo because this very deep and resonant baritone was not my familiar register.

Moving up, I climbed up the hill to both Kathleen Battle’s houses. There was a woman there who was White and older. She was helping this old, old, ancient White man. I wondered,

‘Who is this man?’

I knew straight away that he was definitely very important, in the spiritual scheme of things, here on this planet. I thought that, perhaps, it was Herbert von Karajan but he is now passed on.

He did, after all, have quite an attachment to Kathleen Battle. This is why she was always invited to Salzburg.

However, then too, I thought that it was more than likely Herbert von Karajan because the energies of this man were incredibly magus fitting the archetype of the magnetic old king from the Michael Teaching which Herbert von Karajan was/is.

I thought that perhaps he looked as old because he was doing so much immense energy work in his function as a sixth level old, magnetic old king soul. Naturally, his agedness would have been a reflection of his having passed a large number of lives, to date, at sixth level old.

He was very transcendent and, you could tell, was no longer physically focussed. More importantly, everything about this dream indicated it being very much so alive. The dream was very much so real and set on the astral plane which is where that magnetic old king, Herbert von Karajan, now resides.

In any event, he was being helped down by this long-legged, handsome, strong-willed woman. She much reminded me of Marella Agnelli, the wife to the CEO of FIAT motors of Italy Gianni Agnelli. However, this woman was older than Marella Agnelli presently is.

*One of the things about some, definitely not all, wealthy persons is that their stratospheric wealth enables them to be in their element. As they are such mature-souled, august, reincarnationally sophisticated souls, money allows these spiritually elevated persons to exist in the world unencumbered by the Maya of the wretchedness of every day existence.

Such wealth enables them to transcend the Maya of financial limitations that entraps and stifles the merely working class to upper middle class.

For the latter classes, the lines of demarcation are more nebulous than they would like to accept. Hence, the excessive restrictiveness and obsessions with class, looks, greed, Brahmanism et al.

Some of these truly wealthy people do not suffer the strictures of belief systems. This allows them to just live in their element and be supremely human.

This is not true of all wealthy persons because, for one, the nepotistic cupidity of Hollywood certainly validates this. These people, such as Gianni Agnelli and Marella Agnelli, do not suffer the displacement of humanity that many greed-fixated wealthy persons experience. END.

This woman here in the dream, in that sense, reminded me of Marella Agnelli. The latter impresses me as someone who truly does embrace her humanity. One gets the sense of her that she is not separated from the little people of choice.

We then all came down after, of course, I had gladly gone to give the graciously handsome woman a hand with assisting the magus himself. We sat in this long, long, long enclosed veranda that had a fine linen mesh covering it.

There was a wonderful breeze. The magus was on my immediate right and talking away. Indeed, he did make my energies zing and become reshuffled. It was at the level of the atomic and it was subtle but noticeable.

He was talking about the music, raving about how great it was, and how fabulous Kathleen Battle had been in performance. Next, he opened a large bottle of spirits which was like champagne but it looked more like a bottle of gin.

He then took up a magnum of some expensive champagne or other and raised it saying,

“My dear, you must have a drink. You have earned a drink.”

He had a wonderful soulful voice. Whatever he said became the law. He was beingness in the flesh. He simply held court. You experienced his spirit, more to the point, one experienced his very soul.

He was truly what the Michael Teachings would call a magnetic old king. One just intuitively sensed and knew it because this, after all, was the astral plane. One did not doubt insights gleamed here. He was so grounding to have been next to.

When he was pulling out the cork it proved very long. In fact, it was extremely sexual what he was doing with the cork. It was very slow and hypnotic. I got a sexual high experiencing him uncork the champagne.

I never did look into this man’s eyes overlong because his face was so powerful and so tremendous. He was someone who was clearly passed on. I also knew that it was not Merlin.

I had only looked at his face, in the distance, when he was up on the hill. He wore the most spiritually refined face imaginable. Up close, I knew that I just did not have the power to peer overlong into this face.

I was too drunk by his magus energies that bled outwards magnetically permeating and fine tuning everything – man and nature. Thus I had to hold the champagne flute with both my hands with my knees sexily drawn up whilst my feet rested on the edge of the chair.

Giggling, simply giddy from his energies, I said en Français,

“Champagne! Oh god I love champagne.”

He began pouring in the champagne whilst it was fizzing. He poured it in a decadent manner. As it crashed into the glass there were a lot of bubbles from the bottle, gurgling aloud, where gobs of drink orgasmically splashed over the rim of the flute.

It was so sensual, so timeless and wonderful that on concentrating on his actions, I experienced the stasis of time. I began besottedly drinking and grew giddy at the implications of the fine company that I was in and that he was serenading me at that.

It much reminded me of the garden party that I attended in Toronto with Merlin, the second to last summer of his life, when the writer Ted Allen had me sit by him spending the party regaling me and flirting with my spirit.

It was a nonsexual thing… just an intimate commune of our spirits. Really fine and memorable it was too. There were other family members about – Pandora as well as Harella.

He told me to move away the glass before the champagne did not spill, over onto my lap, which shortly it would have had he not prompted me. I moved it to the right between him and me.

Immediately, on taking the first sip from the flute my mind stood still because the cool potent touch of it illumined me. Instantly, I realised that the bottle of drink was merely a metaphor. What I was being given was an elixir from his very soul itself.

The magus was healing me thus. What utterly potent aqueous magic. It was cool yet simultaneously warm. It was all the things that the music was and more.

In fact, it was exactly what I needed after having been made drunk and high from the music of Kathleen Battle’s magic. When he finished, it turned out that he had only poured a drink for two other persons of all the others gathered at the party.

I was so blown away by the fact that he genuinely wanted me to be sitting next to him. Perhaps, it was because I had been considerate enough to have assisted him. I had made it possible for him to go down, the hill from the upper mansion’s gardens, to the veranda of the lower house.

He chose not to have passed on the drink to anyone else. It was very subtle but was not, of course, lost on me. He did not pass it around although everyone had glasses and were quietly waiting to be served by him.

Certainly, the impressive magnum could have amply supplied every glass. I was then told by Harella not to be greedy and she advised me to perhaps offer my glass to others.

Ignoring her, I languorously looked out beyond the mesh and thought aloud in a whisper,

“God this is such a wonderful dream. What did I do to deserve this dream?”

Just like that the dream dissolved for me being doubtful and seemingly unappreciative.

vDream one. Earlier, in one section of the dream as I had listened to the music, I saw an inner vision of a holographic diagram. The hologram indicated where in the Cosmos the particular music that was playing, to which Kathleen Battle was singing, had originated.

There was this cardboard-like diagram, which much resembled an Olaf Nordstrom lithograph, which was very sculptural and intellectually placed. Olaf Nordstrom interestingly does, in fact, have six air planets.

Simultaneously, I knew that as much as the successive diagrams were of the cosmos, they were also of the human spine, the nervous system and the human chakra points.

I could see the crown chakra which was very, very expansive. I then saw the first chakra which was close to the tip of the spine. I was being shown that it was very tight and needed to be opened up.

I was being told, by way of seeing this network of cables of light, one had to have one’s energies realigned. It basically was about yoga, breath and, also, about the awakening of Kundalini energy within my body.

It was about becoming more so opened up, at all chakra points, so that I could get more flow. Too, it was stressed that I needed more positive light into and through me.

There was a great deal of blue light flooding the diagram’s holographic systems. There was red light, as well, in certain areas of some of the chakra points.

It was deemed to be neither good nor bad. Rather, it was an energy that was presently focussed in my body.

I was being told that it could be successfully transmuted. I certainly think that I know, to what it was referring, in terms of the sexual energy flow and my sexual centre’s proper functioning.

It was mentioned that it was terribly ego-based and not all that highly evolved in the end.

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As ever, thanks so much for your ongoing support; I am immensely grateful. Sweet dreams and don;t ever forget to push off and start flying.

This past week, I made the most glorious discovery whilst enjoying the BBC’s coverage of the Commonwealth Day Service at Westminster Abbey. As if the gospel choir were not enough or the Indian drummers rapturous, there in the middle of both performances was William Barton This extraordinary shaman with his didgeridoo weaved the most sublime magic; it was the music of cetaceans as experienced in the most elevated dreams. Truth be told, it was the music of a culture of the highest order.

Despite the horror which unfolded on the Ides of March elsewhere in the Commonwealth, this service served to remind and inspire us of what it is about our humanity that binds rather that separates us. Music is the language which moves, inspires, reflects and spiritually binds us as humankind. Shaman Barton’s music proved the most healing balm after the horrific events of the Ides of March.

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Dream dear shamanic dreamers as never before you’ve dreamt, for I am you and you are me in this shared ocean called humanity. May William Barton’s magical whalesong inspire you to push off whilst lucidly awakened in the dream realms and start flying. I love you more… well, why not! No seriously, though, I sincerely do.

Many moons ago, in the 80s when living next-door to designer, Alfred Sung on Cabbagetown’s Amelia Street, I was more obsessed with fashion than I now am. Back then, lots of friends used to bemoan the paucity of black models appearing on catwalks of major house, in particular, Armani.

In this 1992 Fashion Television feature portrait by Jeanne Beker, the thinking model, Veronica Webb makes passing reference to the paucity of black models in ad campaigns and even walking the catwalks of some houses.

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Then along came a picture-perfect day in Berkshire when Sol shone with rays that sparkled as though laced with diamonds and platinum. This phenomenal woman, this soul who had previously been Margaret Beaufort, she with an unparallelled sense of theatre, with poise, self-absorption and awareness in the space of a couple of hours proved herself a game changer. That poise, elegance and revolutionary arrival onto the world stage got everyone to sit up and take notice. Certainly, Pierpaolo Piccioli took notice. He clearly thought that if Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex were going to favour haute couture in choosing Givenchy for the elegantly minimalist wedding gown then Maison Valentino had to step up and court the Duchess.

Bored out of my mind, one day, I happened to be tune into a live event on Eva Chen’s IG @evachen212. It was the Spring/Summer 2019 Maison Valentino Haute Couture show and as Eva shouted and praised the models and creations as they walked, I began crying. Never had I seen so many black models walking in a show. Then Naomi Campbell appeared, closing the show and I was simply floored. Never had Ms. Campbell looked more radiant when walking the catwalk. There was so much tangible love in the air, in that room. This was a moment like no other. There was no denying that Piccioli was courting Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex with that show, not just the ubiquity of black models but the number of creations that featured a bateau neckline were clear homage to the latest duchess of the House of Windsor.

Listen to what Naomi has to say, near the end of the video, when speaking to British Vogue Editor, Edward Enninful. There was nothing more overwhelming that seeing the response in that salon, from Naomi crying, to the adorably eccentric Reine de Charlemagne, Céline Dion crying her eyes out whilst sitting FROW along with Mr. Valentino himself, Valentino Garavani.

Campbell, Naomi 22/5/1970 London, England

Michael: This fragment is a second-level mature artisan — third life thereat. Naomi is in the caution mode with a goal of rejection. A realist, Naomi is in the moving part of emotional centre.

Naomi’s body type is Saturn/Mercury.

Naomi’s primary chief feature is arrogance and the secondary stubbornness.

The fragment Naomi is fifth-cast in the sixth cadence; she is a fragment of greater cadence four. Naomi’s entity is two, cadre four, greater cadre 7, pod 414.

Naomi’s essence twin is an artisan and her task companion is a sage.

Naomi’s primary needs are exchange, expression and freedom.

There are 6 past-life associations with Arvin and 4 with Merlin.

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Naomi epitomises what someone in the positive pole of discrimination looks like. Of course, she is an artisan soul, which gives her that kaleidoscopic, chameleonesque mystique. She also happens to be an entity mate of both John Hirsch and George Hawken; this is why George was always left speechless when she appeared on television. He was bewitched and fascinated by her, which was rare for him where adoring famous persons was concerned. As the recent trip by TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex to Morocco revealed, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex certainly took notice of Pierpaolo Piccioli’s homage to her discriminating sense of fashion and design.

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As ever, I would be remiss if I did not take this time to state how deeply appreciative of your support all these years I am… thank you. Here’s to life. Here’s to you dreaming the most lucid of flying dreams… cause you can!

After having been the most influential woman during the War of the Roses, trust you me, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is no pushover. So there was DailyMale – that coven of vile, racist, castrati media whores – gleefully celebrating the fact that Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge had not invited her otiose sister-in-law, HRH Duchess of Sussex in January to her birthday party.

Naturally, this gorgeous Gucci dress worn by HRH Duchess of Cambridge mirrored the black Givenchy that HRH Duchess of Sussex wore to the 2018 British Fashion Awards, also at Royal Albert Hall.

HRH Duchess of Sussex 2018 British Fashion Awards, Royal Albert Hall.

At the time, the blatantly racially predatory perception of HRH Duchess of Sussex was that it was an inappropriate gown for a royal to have worn. Of course, after HRH Duchess of Sussex’s commanding performance at the BFA 2018, there was a flurry of appearances by HRH Duchess of Cambridge which were all about keeping up and staying au courrant. Regardless the DailyMale‘s make-over of the DoC – there are no longer any photos of the DoC where she is not pulling her death-mask grin – some truths remain unchallenged.

TRHs Duke & Duchess of Cambridge in Ireland.

Whilst recently touring in Ireland, Catherine HRH Duchess of Cambridge did something, which made me adore her even more. As they are keenly aware of how Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is vilified and hunted like the most reviled runaway slave, especially in the DailyMale, Catherine as though to eclipse the criticism of the DoS (Duchess of Sussex), walked ahead of her blood royal spouse, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge and shook the hand of the attendant dignitary first rather than, as she has customarily done, after her husband. So there goes that criticism of Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex not abiding by rules and traditions and deliberately breaking royal protocol by walking ahead of her admirable husband, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex. I do like the DoC’s elegant Missoni outfit.

After having spent the past half decade being demure wallflower, all of a sudden, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge is being jousted to get out there and compete, perform and not be outshone by Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.

To be sure, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge is simply radiant in that Gucci dress but there is no denying fact: public speaking is not her forte and she is looking increasingly stressed and impatient as she is suddenly being hustled to get out there and perform/compete with Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.

Let’s face facts: for Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex a mic is a tool; it is a benign tool. However, a mic is a means for her to project her formidable eloquence, intellect and emotional intelligence.

For Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, mightier than any sword, the mic is the most sophisticated of weapons in this media-concocted War of the Roses 2.0. Conversely, as is plainly obvious each time she delivers a speech, and as per the two video clips cited above, for Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge a mic is but Kryptonite.

Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex @ Mark Hotel, New York City

Not invited to the DoC’s birthday gathering, faster than a Serena Williams ace, the DoS (Duchess of Sussex) decamped to Manhattan and throws a baby shower. Naturally, the excuse for staging it in New York City is that it is not an English tradition; more importantly, as males are not invited, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Catherine would not be expected to travel sans her spouse and especially since she has a less than one-year-old infant. Nicely served.

Abigail Spencer is the quintessential artisan soul. Interestingly enough, she is born the same day, same year as Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex; they are likely cadre, possibly even entity or cadence mates. Abigail’s eyes do, though, have the shape that is usually associated with priest souls rather than not but she does strike me as an artisan soul. Jessica, what’s not to love, she has the most deliciously vulgar laugh that is void bile or repression and has rather alluring eyes. The real intrigue for me is her daughter, Ivy Mulroney whose eyes look way too much like the actor, Annette Bening’s for them not to have a soul connection. Incidentally, Annette Bening is, like Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex mid-cycle mature-souled artisan; however she is on her second life whereas Meghan is on her third at said soul age. Annette is the fourth position of the fifth cadence and her husband, Warren Beatty is in the fifth position of the same fifth cadence. That would make both persons cadre mate of mine as they are in entity one to Merlin and I being in entity six of cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414.

Also in entity one along with Warren and Annette are Jim Henson – with whom Merlin worked as director on Fraggle Rock and Sir Anthony van Dyke who is currently incarnate and my oldest friend and truly gifted lover as he is currently a fourth old soul artisan. By the way, Warren is a seventh level young-souled artisan.

The above is a link to the last blog post wherein there is a rather operatic dream which was shared as it was a celebration of Jessye Norman’s having recently been afforded the Glenn Gould Prize. The dream in question occurred after the first two with Jessye Norman and it involved, Shirley MacLaine, Madonna Ciccone, Warren Beatty and Annette Bening. That dream was triggered by my soul connection as cadre mate with both Ms. Bening and Mr. Beatty. I chose to focus as part of my spirituality in this lifetime on dreams, hence this is facilitated by my Venus/Uranus conjunction; incidentally, that aspect also leaves one with a very shrewd, vulgar and dismissive tongue when provoked – hey, fighting is foreplay.

NEW YORK, NY – FEBRUARY 20: Gayle King arrives at Meghan Markle’s baby shower on February 20, 2019 in New York City. (Photo by Adrian Edwards/GC Images)

Gayle King & Misha Nonoo @ Meghan HRH DoS’s Baby Shower in Manhattan.

NEW YORK, NY – FEBRUARY 20: Amal Clooney arrives at Meghan Markle’s baby shower on February 20, 2019 in New York City. (Photo by Adrian Edwards/GC Images)

Next up, the thoroughly modern jetsetting royal was off to Morocco to be hosted by the King Mohammed VI. I love that red Valentino which of course was snapped up after the House of Valentino went all out to woo the DoS with its bateau collar gowns, an ample staple of blacks walking the show and the inimitable Naomi Campbell closing the show. One of the best Valentino shows ever – SS Haute Couture 2019 Valentino with the deliciously eccentric reine de Charlemange, Céline Dion, weeping in the FROW.

ASNI, MOROCCO – FEBRUARY 24: Meghan, Duchess of Sussex and Prince Harry, Duke of Sussex watch students play football during their visit to Lycée Qualifiant Grand Atlas, the local secondary school on February 24, 2019 in Asni, Morocco. (Photo by Facundo Arrizabalaga – Pool/Getty Images)

TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex in Morocco.

So immensely happy for HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex; after the way I cried watching him walk after his mother’s casket, so very good to see him grounded, happy and fulfilled. I for one certainly hope that the nation’s selfie queen took note of the fact that if a non-Commonwealth nation can host THR Duke & Duchess of Sussex, it certainly does behoove his arse to have invited them on tour here by now; god only knows that Canada holds a special place for them.

“Why do I have to go out there and make all those bloody speeches. I hate it!”

“Okay fine! You can go out there and be Sporty Kate but just remember to keep grinning like a semi-rabid loon.”

Alas, all is well in the universe.

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Keep on shining groovy people… more than ever, push off and start flying as snow falls in Los Angeles and Vegas and two warring religions, nuclear-armed no less, have begun hissing at each other. As ever, I am grateful for your patronage; I do trust that you enjoy my dreams, wit and observations. I love you more!

As I work 7 days a week, I was debating whether or not to attend the Twelfth Glenn Gould Prize Gala at the Four Seasons Centre for the Performing Arts. That morning en route home from some errands, I discovered that someone had jumped from a neighbourhood condo. I got in and realised that there was no more feet-dragging; to hell with being dog-tired. I got on the phone and called up Lucian Mann-Chomedy and said, “My darling, we are going to the Jessye Norman Gala!” As ever, always positive, Lucian chimed in, “Oh my, oh yes, how lovely. Well, I’ll be both honoured and delighted.” Indeed, life is for living!

Merlin and I met Friday, October 1, 1982 in a Hell’s Kitchen Walk-up, the following Monday evening, on his return to Toronto, Merlin called up crying. The man whom he had spent so much of our first evening together speaking of, had died; Glenn Gould had died. For the seven years that we were together, Merlin listened to Glenn Gould’s interpretation of J. S. Bach’s Goldberg Variations at least thrice weekly. Indeed, the first gift I purchased Merlin, was a recently released recording of the Goldberg Variations at Christmas 1982: I think that it is safe to say that that gift sealed the deal, I was a keeper for sure.

As I had waited until the last minute to get seats, I was sat in Ring 4 rather than the usual Ring 3. This, alas, was my view of the stage and of course, the butterflies are from the set for Atom Egoyan’s masterful staging of Mozart’s Cosi Fan Tutte, which the moment I saw the set, I began chuckling to Lucian on recall of Tracy Dahl’s unsurpassed performance as Despina.

As I was too busy trying to throw something together for Instagram, I was heard gasping when it was announced that the head of the Glenn Gould Foundation’s Jury this twelfth prize was none other than the actor, Viggo Mortensen, who then walked out onto stage. He, indeed, who in a few days time will be attending the Governors Ball where he may or may not be holding an Oscar.

Out onto the stage arrived the Twelfth Prize Laureate, Jessye Norman. Truly, it was a shock to the very core to see Madame being ushered out in a wheelchair. Suddenly, I was reminded of the events of earlier which caused me to rush home and purchase two tickets for the event. That aside, there was no greater joy than drinking of her soul’s inspiring beauty.

This beautiful gala was so filled with touchstones for me, none more so than the moment that bass baritone, Ryan Speedo Green was in full song. When he sang, “Aprite un po’ quegli occhi” from Wolfgang A. Mozart’s Le Nozze di Figaro.

Yes, indeed, this marvellous aria’s orchestration included a harpsichord. Straight away, I was teary-eyed as memories of the truly eccentric and delightful Milan Newcombe readily surfaced; Milan will ever remain a lover like no other.

During the intermission, I ran into two old friends not seen in at least 1.5 decades; we spoke of nothing but our surprise at Ms. Norman’s entrance. Life really does march full speed ahead.

After the intermission, it was the announcement of the Glenn Gould Foundation’s Progidy Prize with the recipient being none other than, Cécile McLorin-Salvant, the most fabulous Jazz singer on the planet. Is this not an evening to remember during Black History Month indeed.

This stunningly unforgettable gala was closed out by the final recitalist being the divinely gifted soprano and Glenn Gould Foundation Prize juror, Sondra Radvanovsky in full song, singing Verdi.

The gala concluded with Ms. Norman returning to the stage and singing a duet with Cécile McLorin-Salvant. This was a moving, emotionally intense evening and my life was greatly enriched for having chosen to attend. The gala was nothing short of magical.

As a tribute to this marvellous evening in the theatre, I will include herein two dreams, which were originally audio-cassette-recorded in the 1990s. Before each deam, one of Glenn Gould, the other Jessye Norman, I will include each individual’s Michael Overleaves.

Gould, Glenn Herbert 25/9/32 – 4/10/82, Toronto

This fragment was a sixth level mature artisan in the repression mode, with a goal of growth, an idealist in the moving part of intellectual centre.He had a Mercury/Saturn body type.

Glenn’s primary chief feature was self-destruction with a secondary of arrogance.

Glenn was third-cast in his cadence and his cadence is fourth in the greater cadence. He is a member of entity four, cadre five, greater cadre 17, pod/node 819.

This fragment has an artisan essence twin who was alive during Glenn’s life but there were no plans to meet. This fragment is still incarnate on the physical plane.

The fragment who was Glenn has a scholar task companion, who was in a previous life, Carl Philip Emmanuel Bach. They were not incarnate at the same time.

However, the fragment who was Glenn was exerting considerable influence on Carl Philip Emmanuel.

These two fragments had many lives together, once as luthiers, three times as court musicians, nine times as brothers of the cloth, twice as brothers in the flesh, as well as completing several important life monads, including student/mentor and master/slave.

In the immediate past life, the fragment who was Glenn had as his three primary needs: security, communion and exchange. Only the first of these was ever even partially satisfied.

So here we had a warrior-cast artisan who had seriously conflicting overleaves and a primary chief feature of self-destruction. He had a goal of growth but a repression mode which would not allow him to flourish.

He had a need for communion, but was sexually ambivalent and socially inept. Undeniably, he had great talent but took no pleasure from performing in public.

This fragment has a great deal of scholar energy that was used in the immediate past life to enable Glenn Herbert to painstakingly examine and interpret the works of Johann Sebastian Bach.

He was very interested in form and structure for all of his adult life. This fragment was, unfortunately, the victim of a severe obsessive-compulsive disorder, also for all of his adult life, which worsened considerably during his third and fourth decades.

This fragment did not, as popular wisdom teaches, retire from public life because of any strong beliefs in the recording industry. Glenn Herbert retired from public life because he could no longer bear to be in crowds, even if he was distanced by a proscenium.

Needless to say, this fragment did not complete work on his fourth internal monad.

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Astral Plane Glenn Gould Recital!

Nothing is more uplifting than finding oneself at a great musical performance on the astral plane. This dream was about being richly inspired and by Glenn Herbert Gould, no less; it was truly marvellous an adventure for the spirit.

The dream occurred, on Tuesday, October 6, 1992, whilst the Moon transited both Aquarius and my ninth house.

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I am in France where I leisurely browsed through a store; perhaps, it was somewhere in Paris. It seemed here like at nighttime. Whilst in one corner of the store, I noticed that there were all these big slabs of cheese in packaged containers.

There was a woman coordinating the display of the cheeses. Sometimes the cheese was being grated and other times not. There and then, I decided that I was going to buy one slab of the cheese that was packaged in a rectangular box.

The cheese was about an inch thick and about eight inches long. The cardboard box that it was in was white and almost like the size of a box of Cream of Wheat.

Surprisingly, the box was rather heavy. Though not unlike cheddar, it was a dark cheese. The smell of this cheese was really hard – quite the bite to it.

It had seemingly been opened for too long as parts of it was growing hardened and turning colour. I knew straight off the bat that I wanted to have some to take home with me.

So, off I went to purchase the slab that I liked. Everyone here was, of course, speaking French which I quite so understood and liked. Interestingly, I too was speaking very competently in French.

It was obvious that I was not too heavily accented as the others were pleasant-enough with me.

The second dream had me leaving the store; I then found myself hovering in the air. Whilst in flight, I went into a building which had a green – oxidised-copper – roof. It was part of a long set of buildings that had very, very tall stone chimneys.

These were chimneys that were not unlike the ones at the Palais du Louvre. As a matter of fact, the building was similar to the Canadian Parliament buildings though it was not those buildings.

This complex was considerably longer. These were a series of complex buildings. Here, I was easily thirty storeys up whilst in flight. I looked down at the complex which at maximum could not have been more than five storeys tall.

After having contemplatively observed the complex for awhile, I began very slowly gliding down through the air. I intently studied a procession of persons, way below, who were bailing out of very large buses; they were, as a matter of fact, tour buses.

This was all happening in a courtyard-like area and away from the bustle of the street. I next noticed some men who appeared; they seemed, in their long, flowing white robes, to be priests.

They were not Arabic or Muslims in caftans; rather, they were definitely Whites. The buildings here were long on the order of Palais Richelieu in Paris. When I finally alighted, we had to go through this incredible entrance.

This led into a wonderful sandstone building; it was very modern with a neo-classical design. On the order of being imposing, the door to this place was massive. They seemed to be the doors to a temple.

To get to the entrance, there were many steps which one had to climb. On entering, off to the right, there was a passage that one could take.

An aisle led along another passage; it seemed illumined by a skylight. The priestly men had all entered before me. They preceded a procession of adherents who had come to partake of some ritual.

I had gone to explore, off to the left, because it was the wing of the building that had reminded me of the Palais du Louvre. Going there, I wandered about being fascinated by the place.

Some women were posing for artists in this particular wing. They wore modern garb but were very exceptionally beautiful. What was most intriguing about their look was that it was exactly as they would have appeared on the finished canvases.

They were very nubile young women; they had to hold their poses for interminably long periods. Here several kids kept on going through the place; they were seemingly art students.

They were all very North American, middle class with their loud, snobbish bourgeois affectations. Right away, it was obvious that all the muses were still virgins.

Theirs was an innocence that could never be affected. They were all teenage girls whose bodies were very voluptuous and full. These were not skinny people at all.

There was one point at which one girl was holding different poses. Each girl would be painted by from three-to-five artists, at a time. Thus every pose would be captured from different perspectives.

At one point, they told her to take a break; they then reverted back to an earlier pose. This was so that they could return to that work and put some more work into finishing it up.

When she changed the pose, she had also turned some 180 degrees. This particular model, whom I was studying, wore socks with Oriental-looking sandals.

Inside her socks she kept little items of hers. Whilst she was making the transition, she simply reached up her foot and pulled up her right leg to reach down into the socks.

Hers was a pair of blue-coloured socks – pale blue. To just above the ankles was the extent to which the socks rose. Looking at her, she took out something from about her ankle which looked like a wafer.

Not the least bit self-conscious, she ate it at once; it seemed like a chocolate wafer which she favoured. She seemingly needed it to get an energy boost so that she could stay focussed on the tedious work that she did.

After having found it all very interesting, I moved on sufficiently knowledgeable of the goings on here. Walking along a corridor, I ended up going into a room where everyone was very strange.

A guy there was a lot like Galen Shim – my very beautiful, Hong Kong-born, Eurasian friend. He reclined on a bed with his head close to the door. When I came in, I noticed that he was naked. When giving him a massage, I began by oiling his body.

It was quite fragrant oil. Rubbing down his body, I began working on his toes and feet. Afterwards, I got up to leave but he very silently began coming with me.

So out we went and joined the procession of persons; among them this time were several kids. Mostly, they were teenagers – amongst whom I did not want to be.

Galen or the guy who seemed like him, here the guy was not wearing glasses as before nor would Galen for that matter, and I kept walking through the place. Pretty soon, after we had left the noisy kids, we started hearing the most beautiful music.

This was one of the rare times that I found the music of the pipe organ to be beautiful. Within the complex, we happened on this wonderful cathedral inside which were most of the people from the procession.

On entering the structure, it seemed more like a concert hall. We soon learnt that the hall was specifically built so that only Johannes Sebastian Bach’s music could be played there.

Never before had I heard classical music sound so beautiful. We stood there transfixed whilst listening together. Who then should I notice way at the front of the hall, at the pipe organ that sat high on the dais-like stage, but Glenn Gould. I could see his right profile as if in close-up.

My god, this was rapture and then some. He was playing with such rapt abandon that I steadied myself and whispered more to myself than to Galen,

“My god, what an incredible dream to be having…”

There seemed to be a skylight on the side of the high-ceilinged nave. Instead of there being stained glass windows, windows for that matter, there was only intense light raining down through what seemed to be a skylight system.

The centre of the halved skylight was a wonderful neoclassical, oxidised, copper-looking, greenish flying buttress. Here the look, though modern, was more in the style of Islamic mosques or even Moorish architecture rather than the classic Gothic signatures.

A series of the most intricate and complex circles intertwined, like some riotous jungle vine, in the cathedral-like, concert hall’s stonework. Breathtakingly beautiful it was. I stood there, just inside the entrance to the hall, on the left of the wide aisle.

This was a very wide-bodied structure. As you progressed down the aisle, there were different levels where one could go up and sit. These were either on the right or left. The central aisle was covered by the most beautifully designed red carpet.

This place was considerably wider than Notre Dame Cathedral. Unlike the Parisian Gothic structure, it was not a darkened affair. Here it was very intensely bright out. The light coming in on the right and left side of the flying buttress-like, central girder fell through a slightly frosted glass.

The light was an intense – almost aquatic – blue. Interestingly, there were no beams or columns, supporting the unusual central, flying buttress-like beam. For looking at the light, one became slightly languorous. I felt paralysed with pleasure; there before me, down the massive hall, sat Glenn Gould.

He wore the most thick-fabricked garb; it seemed from an earlier age. All the men in the white gowns were up at the front. They were all transfixed – as well they should have been.

Though I love Johannes Sebastian Bach, at the time, I had some reservations as I am not especially fond of pipe organs. I suppose that it is because it has always had too many religious associations during my childhood.

The persons attending the concert were there simply to recharge their batteries. They seemed, all of them, as if not quite in their bodies for being so transfixed – they were otherwise-engaged.

Eerily, I had a sense that these were all persons who were between lives as is Glenn Gould. They were in a form of processing, a form of deep meditation on the order of sleep, as they prepared for the next incarnation.

This fugue was the most complex music imaginable. Indeed, the music seemed designed for those between lives. The fugue was composed for astral plane habitués who, sans bodies, could best endure the music’s intensity.

Getting a sense that I really shouldn’t be there, plus the fact that I finally couldn’t get into the pipe organ, I started taking my leave of the place.

Galen, or the person who seemed a lot like him, and I then went out front. There we waited for the specific tour buses to show up and take us away. Whilst I waited with Galen, or the person who seemed a lot like him, I was joined by Pandora.

It seemed that most of the people who were here were very young-souled. They seemed to be on a pilgrimage, like visiting the original Gohonzon in Japan or going on the Hajj, at Mecca.

As the pipe organ played, I could hear in the tone of the place a faint whisper from the men in white robes. Their thoughts, it turned out, could be telepathically heard. Even earlier, when I had been hovering in flight high above the complex, I knew that this was more so a political institution rather than not.

This was a structure which was just as colossal as the temple at Karnak and considerably older. This place was mind-bogglingly complex and massive. The temple was posited directly in the centre of it all.

Just like La Chapelle in Paris is comparably dwarfed, by its surroundings, so too the massive concert hall-like temple was dwarfed by the complex. This architectural marvel was simply soul-inspiring.

Whilst all the buses were waiting, I took to one of the buses with Pandora. I had gotten impatient waiting to be assigned to one. We spoke in French because everyone else here did the same.

This was not unlike a Parisian bus – the seats all faced each other. Seated close to the front, we were on the left side of the aisle behind the driver.

As though getting close to Saint-Sulpice Métro, I got up and said goodbye to Pandora. I wanted to get off there then walk back to her rue de Grenelle apartment.

Pandora planned to go out then come home later so had asked me to wait for her at her place. Here it seemed as if nighttime coming on to dawn.

Speaking guardedly in French, I made sure that I was speaking properly and not just fumbling partout. Really, I rather enjoyed this experience of being together with Pandora.

I was very serene enjoying the very beautiful experience. Galen, or the person who seemed a lot like him, had silently slipped from my side when Pandora came and joined me.

*Of course, it would turn out that the person in question was Louka Duplessis and not Galen. I would meet Louka, who accompanied me in this dream, the day following this dream.

Just prior to meeting for the first time, it is not uncommon for me to dream of persons.

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Norman, Jessye 15/9/45, Georgia

Jessye is a first level old priest in the passion mode, with a goal of rejection – functioning for the most part in the positive pole of discrimination, a spiritualist, in the emotional part of intellectual centre.

She has a Jupiter/Saturn body type.

Jessye’s primary chief feature is arrogance, with a secondary of stubbornness.

This fragment was third-cast in her cadence and her cadence is fifth in the greater cadence. She is a member of entity five, cadre six, greater cadre 33, pod/node 212.

She has a discarnate priest essence twin whom she did know earlier in this life but this fragment died in Vietnam. She has a warrior task companion and they have worked together and continue to do so occasionally.

Her three primary needs are: freedom, expression and power.

The warrior energy gives Jessye tremendous organisational powers and her stubbornness has enabled her to stick in there when the going got very rough many times.

Jessye is a warrior-cast priest who has been a spiritual rebel in this life. This is, by the way, not the first time this fragment has sung professionally. This fragment was a well-known castrato in seventeenth century Italy and performed many times before the crowned heads of Europe.

Jessye has great need to serve her concept of the higher ideal and has done so admirably by combining the folk music of her people with her operatic repertoire.

She performs well, as do most entity five fragments. This fragment has always enjoyed her work. Singing has been an extension of her inner spirituality. It is, in fact, a form of meditation for her.

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Now that’s a Hollywood wife!

These rather lucidly awakened dreams were experienced with an intense sense of wonder and joy, on Monday, July 2, 1990. At the time, the Moon transited both Scorpio and my sixth house.

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This first dream found me in a very busy place. When going south towards the Danforth, it was not unlike being on Broadview Ave. It was at nighttime. I came there and found that there were tons and tons of Black people.

Even so, it seemed like Toronto and at Broadview Subway station because there are all these streetcars there. One of the streetcars was improperly parked, as a result, it was going to go and turn around.

Waiting for it to do what it had to do, there was another streetcar out in the street. It was really more like a red-rocket streetcar. It was not like one of the newer ones.

Everyone here was Black. There were no Whites or other non-Blacks that I saw. Everybody was in the street which was very jam-packed. They were getting ready to cross, after the streetcar had passed, to go in.

There was now a system, where you paid your fare aboard the streetcar, so that you did not have to enter the front doors of the station on Broadview.

When you got aboard the streetcar, it was mandatory that you pay a fare. So it did not matter whether you paid a fare at the proper entrance or not. There were many people queuing up to get aboard a streetcar.

Passing these people who were seated there, I went through the proper entrance. One of them seemed like Gabriella Vartan† and they were talking about me.

I came around and began going down the steps, into the nether regions, en route to the trains. There was this little old lady who was taking her time, holding up things, so I pushed her to my right.

I made my way down then had to go around taking another flight of stairs; I then kept on going. There were a whole lot of levels to this subway system.

When I got down, there was this little cul-de-sac where there were these Black guys – homeboys – hanging out. However, they were not Black American.

I found one of them very attractive and smiled at him. He, however, was very homophobic. He went running upstairs to go call the police on me.

The train then came into the subway and it was a very, very large train. It towered very high to the ceiling. It was like an Amtrak train which seemed like a double Decker train. It was mostly silver, however, it turned out not to have been double Decker.

When it stopped, I began running full speed because I did not want the guy to come back and board the same car as me. I ran to the front of the train only to find that one couldn’t board there. Instead, one could only enter this train where the cars joined each other.

You could enter the front or backdoors of each car but not the front ones of the first car. It was very sleek, round and Deco like a train from the 1930s.

The whole place did have a feel of the ‘30s to it. It was very neo-Gothic like the Chrysler or McGraw-Hill buildings in New York City, or for that matter, even the Empire State Building.

It was reminiscent of very early in the twentieth century which was all about great architecture – of things being large, mammoth and spiralling upwards, too, things getting faster and faster.

That sense of adventure about the wonderful world of commerce that one had created. It was that time when people had not yet begun to see, as we now know, the consequences of things being bigger and better and faster and all the effects on nature.

I got onto the train heading, again, towards the front. Somehow, I felt relieved because I had lost the guy. I was there and noticed a stout man who was either High-Yellow or, perhaps, even White.

The people here were very strange because they were just rather unusual. Even though they looked White, they seemed more bronzish, actual bronze, than the pinkish tonality of the waking state.

This was not a place that I knew. It was very otherworldly here, I soon realised. I did not get a seat and as I stood there I then noticed a woman. She was standing at the very front of the train.

The train progressed with unusual speeds, I immediately noticed. When the train had shaken, the stout man had tried to brace himself by putting out his foot that was already out in the aisle.

In the process, he had stomped me and I had had to pull my foot out from under his and pushed his away. He wore business attire, a suit and tie, as though en route to an office job.

The woman who was standing up was playing on a wooden flute-like instrument that was less than a foot long. However, the thing about all this was that she had unusually short arms.

They were fully functional hands with tiny little fingers that nimbly danced over the valves of the wooden, wind instrument. Her arms were like a Thalidomide-damaged child’s.

Then I noticed too that there were other people on the train, about three or four musicians, practicing as well. I soon realised that everyone on board had some sort of physical deformity.

They were just ill-proportioned people with torsos that were too long or arms that were too short. Arms too long or what have you, moreover, this also applied to the legs.

The most pronounced cases were always the musicians like the female flautist – two or three of the other musicians were male.

Someone else who was on the train began laughing and, out of nervousness, I joined in. The person was laughing at the woman. She, however, hadn’t paid them any mind.

Nobody else was paying people, who were laughing, any mind. They did not see anything wrong with the people who were being laughed at.

I then got off the train and was out in this concourse area, where the trains arrived, before I went upstairs. Before I would go upstairs I saw this child seated in the middle of this white blanket that seemed more like diaper material than flannel.

The child wore a salmon-coloured merino. He had little, white, cloth diapers on. The infant had, again, very unusually, unusually short, short legs that made it look almost like a child because it was seated upright on its bottom.

However, it had a very big torso – matured, such that the child seemed like a very big, big child for its age. Its head was very large with a very developed large and soulful-looking face.

At the time it made me thing of Jake Hudson. Jake does have a very large head and face. I was trying to connect with him. He reached out his short little arms, crying out and said,

“Dad, I want to go.”

There was this youngish man, who was blond like the child, and he seemed not unlike the guy Olaf Knight. He picked up his son and used the blanket, on which the child sat, that had these straps and put him around his shoulder.

Like an African mother would, carry her child when in the fields, thus he was carried on his father’s back. He walked off with the child, who was holding on to him, except that the child was really an adult male.

It was all very strange here in this otherworldly place.

I ended up coming upstairs and going out in the outdoors. There were people here – again, mostly Black people. I was talking to them when I heard the strains of Richard Strauss‘s Four Last Songs beginning.

I beamed and excused myself from the people, with whom I was interacting, and went running off up this plaza. It was a clay-tiled plaza and when I got there, I saw the symphony.

I went and sat in lotus position and sat very close to the front. There was a gathering of persons in a semicircle and I was, as a matter of fact, the closest to the stage.

The stage was above on a dais and it was edged by old gold juniper. The juniper was really, really nice and quite fragrant, refreshingly so, to the smell.

Along came, from around a corner walking, Jessye Norman – the high priestess herself. She had been preceded by her divine voice’s magic. She was, of course, singing Four Last Songs.

She wore a beautiful, beautiful, glistening black dress that seemed almost organic with a life of its own. It was twinkling on and off but the lights were lifelike like fireflies.

They were sequins but they seemed, somehow, to be organic. It had hues of gold, silver, bronze, and dark green hues like pine and blue hues like lapis lazuli. It was very, very intensely rich a fabric.

She started singing the first song, Frühling, and it was very hauntingly beautiful. She saw me and beamed down at me. It was so connected between us. I was so enthralled and overpowered; I was quite smitten by her.

I thought very rapturously awakened,

‘Yes! I’m having a dream of Jessye Norman. So very good to see her again, my god here she is and performing Four Last Songs.’

She then came almost to the lip of the stage and stopped as though about to sneeze. Then she held her breath and started laughing because it was so hysterical.

The look on my face was one of being truly horrified for her. This had actually caused her to crack up. Then she began singing again and began making gestures for me to move or be removed.

I was stunned and thought this some sort of betrayal.

‘Why is she snubbing me like this?’ I wondered.

Then these two huge, burly guys came to eject me out of the area. As I was leaving, I could hear her starting to sing again. I was very, very upset.

I was, in the second dream, in this large house that was a very many-storeyed place. It had many apartments. I came out and it had a very slanted roof that one could go out onto. This roof was, however, very dangerously precipitous.

I was looking about and thinking of Carl Leroiderien because, somehow, someone was talking about him. This White man was talking to me and telling me that Carl had been enquiring after me.

He then went on to ask me if I smoked dope which I denied. I can’t think of it doing anything for me except, perhaps, to make me sneeze at the most. Sometimes if mixed with hashish, I then got a massive headache.

“It doesn’t do anything for me, I don’t really like it. I don’t see the point to it and I don’t smoke it.”

At the time that he was saying this, we were climbing some very, very steep stairs. Then at that point, after she had given her performance, I encountered Jessye Norman again. She was seated on a bench and called me over.

She said hello very warmly and apologised saying,

“I hope you weren’t upset. You realise that it was a misunderstanding. I wasn’t laughing at you; it’s just that you don’t seem to realise where you were.

“You were, well there are certain degrees of protocol and you were ahead of the dignitaries.

“And you shouldn’t have been so close to the stage because one of the reasons why your nose started bleeding was, in this dimension, if you’re this close to the stage… when I’m singing, when I hit certain notes it can shatter your eardrums but also shatter your mind.

“So you see it was very crucial that I get you out of there. Also, I was having a very bad allergic reaction to the plants at the edge of the dais. They made me want to sneeze. It wasn’t at all you or exclusively you.”

In having embraced me thus, she was being most healing. I did, in fact, have quite the nosebleed. As I was being hustled out of the place, by the burly guards, it was then that I realised that my nose was bleeding.

At the time, I had thought it strange. As this dream progressed very lucidly and linearly, there was no point at which either burly guard had so much as touched me.

I was so upset. It was so very good, after the fact, to have had her explain as she did.

*This dream really does validate the notion that all persons encountered in the dreamtime, without exceptions, are separate entities and not figments of one’s imagination. END.

When I was being bounced by her, I was so stunned, upset and humiliated. Had she not explained as she had just done, I would have awakened from this dream with a totally different perception of events.

I had also no way of knowing that she was having an allergic reaction to the juniper which, at the time, I found so wonderfully soothing. What’s more, I hadn’t a clue that I had thrown the Chi of the place by having disrespected protocol.

I would never have thought that my nosebleed was due to her singing. In fact, it is possible that I could have awakened and not recalled that, indeed, I had had a nosebleed which I had totally forgotten until she had mentioned it.

Jessye Norman has indeed straddled, with great élan and diplomacy, many a dimension with great frequency and fluency.

I then began holding her hand and told her that there were times that I had dreams of her, in which there were sometimes cetacean-looking creatures that came and did formations around her as she sang hyper-dimensionally.

She was just enthralled and pleased. She squeezed my hands and laughed a healthy, really wonderful laugh. She was quite smitten by me and encouraged me to write it all down.

Her eyes here were so very large, soulfully dark and focussed right into me. It gave me a high just to have experienced them.

I was wearing, when close to the stage, a satin merino-like shirt. So at the time of being bounced out, I had passingly thought that I had been dressed too scantily for her liking.

In any event, it was quite interesting.

This third dream was truly hysterical. It seemed like on Eglinton Avenue East, between Yonge Street and Mount Pleasant Road. It was at nighttime. There was a lot of goings on.

Shirley MacLaine was there, Warren Beatty and Madonna Ciccone, as well. Warren Beatty was the man of the hour and the centre of everybody’s attention.

He had a great deal of sexual energy and magnetism. He had been performing for the camera and for everybody around. It felt very staid to me though.

One very interesting thing that happened was that he had been heavily drinking and, whilst laughing, had bent forward. He then began uncontrollably coughing and was holding his chest and faking a massive heart attack.

Next thing you knew, we were in a very crowded area and it turned out that he had not been faking the heart attack. He had a very, massive, massive heart attack.

He was dead just like that. He was gone within moments. It was just incredible. Shirley MacLaine became utterly hysterical. Her bawling was like from some Greek tragedy.

She went into a trance-like frenzied state and began calling on astral guides and her Pleiadean guides. Pulling out a very impressive clutch of crystals, she threw herself onto him and tried healing him of death.

She was placing them all over his body – at the chakras and elsewhere. It was too humourous for words.

Meanwhile, as Warren Beatty died, Madonna came rushing up to the scene. It had all been too late and they couldn’t rush him to a hospital. There was no way that he could have been revived.

They had been out in some desert area having a big party; there were no doctors around. There was nothing that they could do; he couldn’t be saved. He was dead… he was gone.

Shirley MacLaine started cursing to the gods, saying,

“This is so unfair.

“He hasn’t even been able to make the sequel to Dick Tracy. And right when he’s at the top of his career this is happening?”

“Well you know this will really immortalise him now. Definitely, this is great publicity, right at this point in his career.” someone had dryly said who was not attached to his whole entourage.

I had heard this but Shirley MacLaine hadn’t heard it. Madonna came and whatever she thought about I could telepathically hear it. Her immediate response was,

‘Oh shit! This is just going to fuck up my goddamn career.

‘If only I’d gotten a child by him. Shit why did I have to have that abortion of his child. Shit!’

She was thinking fast. She was someone who knew how to manipulate the media. She was really pissed off because it would have meant immediate Hollywood sainthood for her, were she to go on and have Warren Beatty’s only child, after he had tragically died.

She was really pissed off because this was media manipulation beyond her wildest schemes,

‘I’ve got to get him out of here. I’ve got to have the best genetic engineers flown in immediately…’

I was stunned when I read her thoughts because, of course, she intended to harvest his seed and impregnate herself and then have a premature love child of Warren Beatty’s.

I was stunned by this woman’s phenomenal megalomania.

‘During the autopsy, I’ll have his sperm taken out and I’ll have it copyrighted. It’ll be my possession. I’ll have it engineered so that I’ll have a child… a son. God we can even have twins…’

She, all the while, was cowering over his face… kissing him and doing the wailing widow number,

‘…Can you imagine, Madonna?’

She privately squealed to herself – unaware, of course, that she was broadcasting to someone like me. She was so triumphant at having had that idea because all she knew was that people who so loved Warren Beatty would take to her now.

She was insecure as to whether or not she would endure through time. However, with this, she knew that she would automatically become iconic. She would become truly the virgin mother!

She would be actually giving birth to some dead man’s child – he of course being, Warren Beatty. It was destiny. After all, she was ‘the’ Madonna.

She had this flash that this was why she had always been so drawn to crucifixes. She was going to capitalise on the whole drama by making sure that it would be a son.

Of course, not to be outdone by that old, other Holy Mother with the virgin birth, she would eclipse that Madonna by having twin sons. Again, La Stupenda squealed with delight to herself.

I passingly wondered if I were the only one to be privy to her thoughts. Then I realised that from my detachment, as everyone bawled and was truly horrified as though these were Olympians and not mere mortals, that I was the only one.

‘What could be better than having two Warren Beatty lookalikes crawling around the planet and who were his twins? And his only heirs! With today’s genetic engineering it will be a great coup.

‘Think of the press! I’ll be guaranteed perpetual immortality. I’ll be iconised for all history…’

I thought then and there,

‘My god, this woman is monstrous.’

In any event, the funeral was upon us and by some strange quirk of the dreamtime, I was very much so a part of the funeral. I was as though a fly on the wall, as it were, and aren’t you lucky?

Why, was I participating? I do not know?

In any event, I was dressed to the nines. I had on a wonderful, lace outfit with a mantilla with my veil covering my face. I was part, somehow, of the funeral party.

It turned out that Warren Beatty had had five wives and, at the point at which he died, his fifth wife was a High-Yellow woman. She was part Black, part White, partly Latina.

He had had all these wives. They had always been paid and kept to remain silent. They were never brought out in the public or media. It was one of Hollywood’s biggest secrets.

People, obviously, never knew about it. It had never once been spoken about. There was an interesting turn to all of this… I had been going along Eglinton East on the south side. It was as though I was going towards Yonge Street; however, it was not Eglinton Avenue East.

Madonna was going to be late because, luckily, it was that time of the month for her. She was off having herself impregnated, by way of a turkey baster, with Warren Beatty’s frozen sperm – the planet’s most expensively rare caviar fertiliser of sorts.

I was attending the funeral with a short woman who was the fifth wife’s mother. She seemed a lot like Sybil Ben-Daniel and wore a brown coat over her dress. I walked with my right arm embracing her as she was on my right.

I had burly bodyguards all about me, before, beside and behind me. They were real Mossad-goon-cum-Wrestlemania types. My pants were those flare-legged Giorgio Armanis that allowed me to stride throwing my legs.

There was a lot of train to them and I had such utter style. I had enormous energies about me and great flare. My eyes were bedazzling even though mantilla-veiled.

They were what were, of course, fuelling my high spirits. The onlookers were lapping up my entrance; I felt wonderful.

We then went into the church and the mother was talking about,

“We want the money to go to the Church because the Church is really the staple of society and civilisation. The Church does so much good.”

I just decided to let her babble on and kept my tongue in check. However, I cussed her under my breath saying,

“You demented old fool. What Church are you talking about?”

The church had a metallic-silver front and it looked not unlike York Cinemas on Eglinton Avenue East. It was not a very big church on the inside. As we got inside, I turned around and hissed at one of the bodyguards because he had earlier stepped on my train.

Of course, we were surrounded then by the paparazzi and the little people. His Bigfoot’s footprint was there on the pant’s train. I reached back and slapped his face real hard calling him a fucking asshole.

Of course, I knew that it was safe to do it here because everyone here knew, only too well, that side of me. However, I couldn’t wreck my public image doing so outside.

As we got closer to the church, I began striding firmer with each step in anticipation of getting his oafish arse. I was really careful not to show that side of me when in public.

I started going down the aisle and there at the end was Warren Beatty’s corpse in the open casket. It was a pure black casket that glistened. It was a dark black wood and a really gorgeous casket.

Escorting the mother-in-law, I came all the way down the aisle. I decided that I would go into the first pew on the right. The first pew on the left actually went further down the aisle and did go past the casket.

It held men in white flowing robes; they were priest of whatever denomination this was – very cream, ivory-coloured and obviously very Catholic.

I went and sat down and immediately behind me was the fifth wife’s family. They were very Hispanic-looking more so than Black. They were very handsome in that family.

I turned around and smiled at one of the men and the energies coming from them weren’t as I had expected – I had thought that they would hate me.

I knew Madonna; I was apparently part of her hangers on. Somehow, I had known her through dance. I thought that, for that association, they would hate me. However, they displayed no such hostilities towards me.

Finally, the fifth wife came and was walking very slowly, regally. She carried a globular bouquet consisting of tiny, little white roses that were sprinkled in amongst some baby’s breath. There were one or two little red roses as well.

She wore a white, lace outfit. Deliberately dressed as though attending her wedding, she was not though veiled. She came down to the casket and knelt before it, like Jacqueline Kennedy-Onassis at the rotunda, staking her claim on history by her performance.

She sobbed in a controlled breath and then got up and walked around to the right end of the casket. Facing the church, she was now behind it and up on the altar. She was before the pews on the left side of the aisle.

She knelt down again and this time began wailing and ululating. She was doing ritual port de bras with her torso and head as well. She kept on holding on to the bouquet.

It was a very Latin; a very emotional display; definitely, not Jacqueline Kennedy-Onassis. It was very soulful and moving. One really felt for her.

Finally, Madonna made her entrance and began slowly progressing down the aisle. There was utter silence in the place because everybody was thinking,

‘Oh dear, poor Madonna was slutting with Warren Beatty at the point of his death. Here is the fifth wife and is she going to create a scene or not?’

Well, of course, she is. The fifth wife is Latin so, of course, there will be theatre.

When the fifth wife had been crossing the casket, I took in her body which was very wide-beamed. I knew then, in a flash, that she was pregnant with Warren Beatty’s child and four months pregnant.

It was clearly no Immaculate Conception as per Madonna’s little trick. She was a very big-boned woman. She got up when Madonna entered the church and stopped crying.

Madonna saw her and avoided her glance as I turned and watched this fascinating bit of theatre unfold. Everyone was really excited at the potential fireworks about to go off.

She started coming down to confront Madonna. I immediately and intuitively knew that there was a gun inside the bouquet that the fifth wife so firmly clutched.

Positioning the gun, the fifth wife began holding the bouquet to her stomach. Madonna, staying her ground, kept on proudly walking down the aisle.

She wore black; it was an outfit that was not dissimilar to mine. She wore a short veil and not a mantilla like I did.

She came walking down towards the casket staying closer to the left pews. The fifth wife came around the right side of the casket and was walking down the right side of the aisle looking at Madonna.

She had a very, very vexed and determined – an almost trance-like, expression of self-absorption on her face. All the energy in her body was directed at Madonna.

When she was about five feet away from Madonna, she held up the bouquet and callously said,

“I’m going to blow your fucking brains out!”

It was filled with so much venom that it reverberated throughout the very high-ceilinged-though-tiny church. It was also very Gothic an interior.

Madonna stopped truly catatonically horrified. You could see it beyond the veil. She had no entourage or bodyguards. She showed up alone, so confident was she of the coup that she had just scored at the geneticist’s.

She was so flustered that she gallantly stuttered back,

“I dare you…”

She was very nervous and said very quickly with a weak, little laugh. She was also vamping à la Breathless Mahoney – the character she played in Warren Beatty’s Dick Tracy film.

She was, however, visibly ashen. Madonna was visibly shaken with fear.

Those persons in the left pews automatically screamed out and crouched down for cover because the fifth wife had held up the bouquet in both her outstretched arms like the gun that it so obviously hid.

“…You can’t do that. Besides Warren’s already dead. What are you trying to prove? You can’t do this to me! Don’t be stupid.”

The woman, however, started slowly walking towards her not buying her bullshit. At that, Madonna turned around and started to bolt and she fell down over her long-trained dress.

She had already made it to the back of the pews on the left. She was much too vain, to run outside and possibly be murdered in front of the little people. So she got up and began running around the far side of the pews.

Of course, as she ran away, the fifth wife could easily have shot her in the back. Then Madonna got really pissed off, stopped against the far left wall of the church, holding out her palm at her attacker saying,

“Stop it! You don’t want to do this. This is stupid. You can’t kill me. I’m Madonna!”

She was just winded; the expression on her face was unbridled rage, fear, terror, chutzpah, all in one. Then the fifth wife pulled the trigger, which was the only sound in the place, releasing the magazine.

Madonna cried out and began pleading with her. It was truly a spectacle. It was really pathetic. The fifth wife then pulled on the trigger and there was a loud plopping sound.

Everybody just screamed and the place became flooded with blinding blue light. It turned out to have been an older-model camera and the flashbulb from the camera as it went off.

When her echo collapsed, as Madonna stood there truly disempowered, the fifth wife uttered in a weary breath,

“I always said to Warren that you’re an ugly slut. This picture will prove it.”

At that the fifth wife turned and came and sat down on the pew next to me. Her Latina family members were just going wild clapping and hysterically shrieking.

Now that’s a Hollywood wife!

Poor Madonna was still standing there involuntarily shaking. She was holding her chest and gasping for air like an asthmatic. Her left hand placed on her chest, with her right hand holding on to the pew, thus she stayed her ground.

Although her hand was on her chest, she was being most clever. However I knew that really where it should have been was at her pussy because what the fifth wife instinctively knew, as did I, was that she had just miscarried. Madonna was profusely bleeding.

Poor Madonna was so humiliated. The look on her face was truly sad; she was sweaty and runny-nosed. She soon collapsed and had to be taken away. Of course, she would be beaten out of having Warren Beatty’s heir by the fifth wife.

The whole thing was so funny and hysterical. I was so stunned that the fifth wife was going to pull this stunt. I really thought that it was a gun; I had, at least, gotten this flash that it was a gun.

The idea to have a bolt release, affecting a gun, was truly ingenious. The picture turned out to be truly horrific. It was all a joke being played on Madonna by Hollywood’s film elites who could not have cared less about her and her parvenu ambitions.

The whole affair was so very wickedly political. The whole thing was so hysterical. I wondered as to what next was going to happen.

Is the fifth wife going to come forward and produce the first Warren Beatty heir – the true child? A child that would look like Warren Beatty – more like a child of the future being of multiracial heritage and a bronzed version of Warren Beatty would the fifth wife bear.

What then will she do about Madonna’s copyright of Warren Beatty’s sperm? Will the fifth wife, for producing the heir, win the legal rights to them and have them destroyed if she chooses to?

Will this not, in fact, begin a Pop Religion rivalling the King, Elvis Presley’s, if Madonna had won custody of the sperm and gone on to impregnate herself and bear those miscarried twin sons because of her bonds to Warren Beatty and his two pseudo-virgin-birthed children – sons at that?

Truly, this is iconography for the new millennium, indeed.

*A very, very interesting dream. Certainly, that I would be dreaming about these people is interesting enough. I don’t pay much attention to any of them beyond the passing.

I had seen Dick Tracy three weeks ago. That the whole thing would evolve the way it did was rather insightful. I was totally surprised, as much so, as was Madonna in the church.

I really did think that she was going to be shot. I thought that it would be so messy.

You know, I just did not want having anybody’s can’t-wash-out bloodstains on my Giorgio Armani pants.

A truly, truly funny dream this was.

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*What can I say, dreams are purely experiential. I dream it and awaken, immediately bringing forth the dream experiences, committing those experiences to audio-cassette tapes.

I rather enjoyed being alone and visiting with Jessye Norman in the earlier dream. Clearly, those dreams were set on a parallel Earth in another dimension and one in which the mostly Black population is differently proportioned than we humans of waking state Earth are.

On the eve of the Oscars, I thought this a fitting offering. I could never have fathomed the outcome of the fifth wife’s agendum until it unfolded. Ingenious, to say the least, was her use of the bouquet.

As ever, sweet dreams and don’t forget to push off and start flying… and so what if you bump into a wall, just attempt doing so again and this time believe that you can effortless transcend the barrier. Perception is, alas, everything.

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As ever my dear sweet ennobled friends, I am ever grateful for your continued support. Please do spread the word, far and wide about this happening dream joint on the cosmic wide web. Always remember to push off and start flying… I love you more.

These next dreams occurred on my birthday; yes, I am leonine to the core. It was my first birthday whilst living in Vancouver, British Columbia. At the time, I was returned to the city after having been off with Frederick Hinneault†, my two-spirit lover du jour who introduced me to the wonderful, spiritually evolved world of powwows and more.

I met Frederick as a result of the dream on summer solstice, 1994, some weeks earlier. That dream, of course, is shared herein on March 3, 2013. It was an uplifting dream and one which fittingly introduced me to Frederick.

More than that, of the six dreams the one of interest is of an astral plane encounter with dancer, Rudolf Nureyev at his Louvre apartments. This, of course, was dreamt after his passing.

The dreams were dreamt with focussed abandon on Tuesday – same day of the week as at my birth – August 2, 1994. At the time, the Moon was transiting Gemini and correspondingly my first house.

Joop happens to be my oldest friend and the only friend/lover with whom I have never had a fight or falling out which is no small feat when it comes to my thoroughly engaged passion mode which can be intensely overwhelming – what with this being my third life at seventh level mature and the fact that I am a combustible mix of warrior and priest indefatigable zeal… sixth position in third cadence, third greater cadence of entity six and cadre one of greater cadre 7, pod 414… of course, being a sceptic means that I will very callously – thanks in part to my Venus-Uranus conjunction – tell you to go fuck yourself in two nanoseconds – used to be with a cool and cutting look in my 20s; now, I just do so with inordinate impatience or charmed vituperativeness depending on my moody artisan prerogative.

Obviously, I am reposting these dreams now as a tribute to Lee Radziwill-Ross who recently passed. Hers was, at least from afar, a truly aristocratic, iconic American life.

*At midnight, I took to the pyramid where I meditated for quite some time or at least had intended to. The phone rang at quarter past as Joop van der Pelster† called to wish me happy birthday.

We shared a really lovely moment of great intimacy. I would then decline returning to the pyramid. Instead, I took to the bed and continued meditating.

Lying on my back, with lids closed, I felt after some time rather opened up and expansive. Then my inner vision became focussed and things began unfolding; so, here then is what I experienced.

Again, for the record, I had not done any drugs prior to this experience as I do not do drugs. Period.

I saw a large container coming, through the air, towards me. Turning around, it shifted and then opened up to reveal a large tunnel that was yellow-red hot-looking.

Contained in the rust-coloured container, it was a flame of light. The only way that I can describe the container’s unfoldment is by drawing an analogy to the protective lens panels on the Hubble space telescope opening up to focus on a point in space.

There was something inside the container which had a round aperture. Growing cautious, I had thought that it was possibly a snake.

However, I then felt myself being quieted into being less hasty to project. My voice to self, during this interval, was almost like Merlin’s at those times – when he would say or do exactly the same thing and encourage me to be open to potentials.

Thoughts of the container being there to suck away my life-force were, of course, premature. There was no way to get around the fact that this large container had a magnetic quality to it; it was almost, if you will, a giant vacuum.

I did not have a sense that it was sending me light energies. Instead of protesting anything, I decided to bleed all the bile within into the container. The container really did look like a gaping hole.

The mouth kept on shifting; yet, on the inside of the container’s mouth, the light was brilliantly red. Then I saw some stray wafer thin waves of energy leaving my body.

As though made of solidified carbon dioxide, they slowly radiated outwards. They left my aura and headed into the same opened up container. I was pleased to see it and, as it were, decided to go with the flow.

I then focussed on letting all spent energies, which were not of the highest nature, be allowed to become disengaged with my corporeal being and waste away – truly spent.

I thought of all the bile that has collected in my body, from so many clung-to painful life experiences. Mostly, this had to do with neutralising the shrapnel that had been psychically projected onto me for being here, in this archly hostile place – this racist black hole work environment here in phenomenally beautiful Vancouver.

I wanted all my fears of ill health and lack of certainty to be dissolved; I wanted it discarded into this large container. This was great meditative and healing work.

The presence – the force of the container was massive. It was as if a black hole had warped space and bled its way through to being close to Sol. Thus, it allowed for this energetic work to take place.

This experience endured, for quite some time, without me once falling asleep… unusually enough. When it was done, I managed to crack my back and got as many vertebrae realigned as when being adjusted by my chiropractor.

This was effortless and really productive. So relaxed was I that I had even been able to crack my neck. I felt truly yogic, relaxed and all expansive. After having manipulated my vertebrae, I returned to meditation and did some deep-breathing exercises.

When my inner vision resumed, everything was completely different. Now I was instantaneously flooded with a deluge of intense white light. A container had approach and, on opening up, produced the flood of white light.

This light was so intense, its beauty so uplifting, as to make it almost too sacred as to have been experienced whilst incarnate. Nonetheless, there you have it, we are here to spiritually get the most out of our journey.

The light was such a glorious experience, its touch a longed for aqueous, silken movement. Being able to experience this light was so very healing and uplifting as well. I was really rather impressed by it all such that I simply further let go and fell into sleep. END.

In this the first dream, I was on the veranda of a very tropical house. It also seemed to have been connected to a back alley. There was a van coming down the road which was to my left.

As it sneaked along, I suddenly didn’t have a very good feeling about this van and its occupants. The main entrance to the house was to my right. The road, on which the van progressed, was a back road.

With the backs of the houses visible as they faced out to the main road beyond, there were larger roads close by. Though I had no idea who was in the van, I had stealthily ducked out of view at the last moment.

A little while later, in the opposite direction from left to right, a car came by bearing Vanessa Banks-Abella†. There and then she was thrilled to see me and excitedly called out,

“Boy what are you doing up there? What are you still doing up at this time of night?”

I told her that I was reading over my notes as I tried properly recording my dreams. Surprised, she claimed disbelief at my still being focussed on recording the dreamtime’s experiences.

“Well wha ah goin stop fa?”

She then asked me to make sure that those kids – hers and others, stayed in the house. I could see her plainly because the car was a convertible. She then had to be off for an engagement.

I suppose that the house would have been hers. I then went around making sure that all the locks on the doors operated properly. In one instance, one had to push a latch to further secure it from the inside.

When the latch was in place, there was no way to open that particular door. I had been concerned that the latch was in place once the children were all indoors.

The door had been opened and I didn’t want any of them to get outside then not be able to get back in. So, for starters, I rounded them all up and made sure that they were inside and left things at that.

Here, too, there were lots of video games both on the veranda, and scattered about the living room. A very cluttered and noisy affair – Vanessa Banks-Abella and William Abella do have three boys, plus their peers, who were over to hang out.

I enjoyed listening to them noisily.

I had an encounter with Isha da Braga, in this the second dream, in which I asked what she had been discussing with Marc-André Viaux. I wanted to know if he had told her what my HIV status was.

Obviously uncomfortable, by being very evasive, she brushed off the line of questioning. She said that it would be more appropriate for me to directly speak to him than go through her.

She simply did not care to get involved. It was obvious though that she didn’t want to have to get involved. Too, it was obvious from her neurotic unsteady eye movements that she knew more than she was letting on to.

For my sake, I simply did not want to become HIV infected. I was in my darkened apartment, here in Vancouver, whilst speaking to Isha da Braga on the phone.

I could see her clearly in her Toronto condo as though we were face-to-face. She could see me too and, for that reason, was avoiding eye contact. A very lucid psychic connection this was.

This, the third dream, was set outdoors at nighttime. I noticed that there was a barre in the middle of the street. As they drove past, persons slowed down to observe.

I was near the back of the barre and felt really strong. Not only was my technique good but my breathing was really relaxed and expansive. I was quite so well grounded.

We had to do the tendus in plié. Maria de Cortez, the Mestiza, was taking the class as well. The female instructor told us what to do. Then she let the left side of her face rub against my right jeaned thigh.

The right foot was pointed in tendu to fifth position in front. At the time, I was in plié. She did this out of admiration of me. I was flattered though concerned that my jeans which were soiled could possibly be a tad malodorous.

She could not have cared less as she wanted to pay me homage. We then did the battements tendus which incorporated a flick that was reminiscent of a coupé. Four times this was done, en croix, then repeated to the other side.

Naturally, when we had turned around to do the exercises at the barre, I had end up being at the front of the line. There were port de bras that accompanied this very rapidly executed tendu exercise.

Maria de Cortez had the port de bras down pat; I really admired her grace and focus. She and I were the only ones who were confident in our movements.

On the sous-sous to turn around, I then did a passé which I held indefinitely before closing, in plié, in fifth position at the end. My turn out was rather elastic and supple.

Here, I was wearing a pair of red legwarmers. When doing the tendus en avant, my arms were up in fifth whilst I looked under the arm. In second position the head was inclined up and outwards.

En arrière, if the arm was kept in second position, one looked below the arm with head inclined forward and down. Furthermore, there was the option of holding the arm in second position arabesque.

During the exercise, the instructor walked past and touched my arm when in fifth position. My port de bras was perfect. My alignment and posture were perfect.

I felt completely on my supporting leg and properly aligned. I felt rather elongated and princely. However, the nature of the discipline was such that she felt it incumbent on her to come by and break me down to size.

It was a way of pushing you to always strive for greater mastery of the technique. Too, it was a way of her saying that I should not have been so advanced yet.

There was a sense, on a personal level, that she almost resented my refinement. I could not have cared less; I was too connected to spirit and the light within to have become thrown by her intervention.

She took her leave of me as her tactics were to moot effect.

An encounter, in this the fourth dream, I would have with a woman who was rather like, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. She was an aristocrat and was quite concerned in nature about being loyal.

She had been the only one to have stayed with Rudolf Nureyev, until the very end, as he suffered from AIDS. This woman, whoever she was, had been the one to have gotten him to stop being in denial of his illness.

She managed to have gotten him to stop drinking, to excess, as he suffered a breakdown of his character. He turned into a literal vagabond about his very opulent, finely decorated Paris apartment.

Perseveringly, she had succeeded in getting him to rein things in. Too, in preparation of his death, she was instrumental in getting him to focus in on his spirituality.

At the time, she was trying to get him sequestered into a place where I was following up on her efforts. I saw Rudolf Nureyev and he did so look as though he were suffering from AIDS dementia.

Though he was standing up at the time, he really didn’t seem strong enough to be doing anything so taxing. There was no way to get around that this man was gravely ill.

His face was ashen, gaunt and his sagging skin left his eyes really large possessed-looking orbs. He wore a narrow-rimmed little hat, from that era in this century, when men customarily wore hats; his hat was not a broad-rimmed affair.

The doyenne went up these stairs, in a very lavish opulent building, that was so very empire and distinctively Parisienne. The stairs inside the foyer led up to a large museum where there was an art exhibit.

The paintings here were rather large. I helped her carry him up the stairs. In a bid to not attract attention, she had turned her back as if looking at a piece of art; it was a tiny drawing.

She did not want the public to notice her; she just wanted to be inspired as a way of recharging her batteries. Rudolf Nureyev was there but by himself.

We had struggled up the stairs, both of us on either side of him, supporting him just ahead of his elbows as his arms were bent at the elbows. I was across the way from them and being silently observant of them both.

There was a path that one could take diagonally to another wing. We had silently managed to slip the birdlike yet regal Rudolf Nureyev into the next wing; there, the space was smaller than the previous salon.

The floors here were of a rough marble that made for a noisy gallery as shoes marched across them. It was though a wonderful light-entrapping interior where the colours were pale and soothing.

Thus the walls enlivened whatever natural light made its way so far indoors. There was no direct natural light here, however, the soft tones of the walls left the place light rather than subdued.

The museum’s salon was rather beautifully laid out. As we walked down to another man, I noticed an African man who was clearly an exchange student.

He had some equipment; he was an arts student of some sort. The gear that he carried was a measuring instrument of some type. It seemed to be a surveyor’s gear or a mini telescope of some sort.

The aristocratic woman was deeply concerned about this. She thought that for using the instrument that he would be able to recognise Rudolf Nureyev who was fairly well-disguised.

She seemed too to be concerned that he might just recognise her which she did not want. She did though seem to be, the more time that I spent near her, to be Lee Radziwill-Ross and not her sister, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.

There were times when she seemed to be Elizabeth Taylor. However, this woman was a born aristocrat and was dark-eyed. She also spoke fluent French which I don’t think that Elizabeth Taylor does.

Besides, I don’t think that Elizabeth Taylor was that close to Rudolf Nureyev. This person was an aristocratic arts enthusiast, who was also a patron of the ballet, which sounds more like the Auchincloss sisters, Jacqueline and Caroline (Lee) rather than Elizabeth Taylor.

Besides, these two were so close towards the end because it turned out that they had a soul connection. Not only did they have several past lives together but it would seem that they shared a close connection that bespoke being cadre mates.

She was in his life to spiritually help him. She wanted him to become focussed such that he would pass with some degree of dignity and be able to move on. This was something that one did for being of the same spiritual tribe or, in this case, cadre.

Finally, the African student, a tall East African Nubian, with richly dark skin did not recognise either of them. He was a deeply introspective Scholar soul who just didn’t focus beyond the object of study which presently happened to have had nothing to do with them.

Both Rudolf Nureyev and his aristocratic confidante were rather pleased that the African had not recognised them and tried to interact with them. I was rather observant of everything whilst with them.

Though I helped out, I was never intrusive and remained at times as though not a part of their party. She had needed me to come in, from time to time, and be of assistance but then I had become nonexistent as this was how she was accustomed to relating to help.

For both of them, being in this place was like a way of staying grounded and inspired. What’s more, this museum was connected to where Rudolf Nureyev lived.

This happened to be the case, in the waking state, as Rudolf Nureyev did have apartments which were a part of the Palais du Louvre – the majority of which houses the Musée du Louvre.

This was supposed to be his last visit to the museum. He had been actually cutting through it whilst en route to his apartments. This was a section of the Louvre where there were lots of prints and architectural drawings.

These salons, however, were not normally opened to the general public it would seem. Members of the diplomatic corps, the very wealthy the world over, could be invited to view these exceptionally rare prints.

It would seem that some of them were Leonardo da Vinci prints. The collection was considerably vaster than the prints that are on display in that wing that is close to the River Seine.

This wing of the museum did feel like it was closer to the Rue de Rivoli. Including Rudolf Nureyev’s, this would also be the wing of the Palais du Louvre where the exclusive apartments are.

I was hoping, in this the fifth dream, to get directions to some place that I had never been to before. There was a woman on the phone telling me where to meet her.

She said that she would be at a kiosk by way of the A1, at the Bay department store. This was here in Vancouver. I was then over on West Georgia Street, on the south side, east of Seymour Street.

Yet, I never saw her anywhere so soon became concerned. I could not quite figure out, why she would want to meet at the Bay. It did though contain the Granville Street Skytrain stop – the city centre’s major hub.

Then I thought that it was by the entrance to the Skytrain; she had said that the kiosk was close to the ‘A’ doors. She had said that she actually worked at the Bay department store so could meet me there.

I thought that, perhaps, it was at the doors by the Granville Street Skytrain entrance. There was, it turned out, no kiosk there nor had I seen her at the Seymour Street entrance. So I returned and went across Georgia to ask further directions.

Later, when she did point it out to me, I saw that it was at the northwest corner of Seymour and West Georgia Streets. Here, things were set up differently to the waking state. There was an overhang.

The side of the building, where the display stood, was cutaway and here in the dreamtime painted blue. Large television screens and other television studio paraphernalia were present.

They were interactive and gave directions to the public. The woman, who had been on the phone whom I was supposed to have met, I then saw across the street on the north side of West Georgia Street.

There was an island in the middle of West Georgia Street reminiscent of Toronto’s University Avenue. I walked along the island going westerly and towards Granville Street.

I saw three Black women with long braided extensions who looked rather well turned out. On seeing them, surprised to see Blacks here in Vancouver, I grew self-conscious.

As compared to being in Toronto, it was such a rare occurrence seeing Blacks locally. Seeing me, they totally scuffed at the eccentric, outré look of me. I could not have cared less about their fake-arsed weave-headed self-loathing idiocy.

One of them had blonde streaks in her hair. Though not High-Yellow they were light-complected and clearly of mixed parentage, perhaps, a generation removed.

All three were of mixed familial heritage in the past, with Whites, and were possibly related. They were very cliquish that way that young women can be.

I did notice in the blue schemata, over by the overgrowth next to the Scotia Tower, there was an opening where there was more blue. This opening up which created a break in the Scotia Tower complex does not exist in the waking state.

A guy was there who was genuinely, archly even, eccentric. This man immediately reminded me of Daryll Newcombe†. On his head he wore a tiny blue and white umbrella.

A striped affair with slats in it, it looked much like a propeller which he could use to take off à la Mary Poppins. Terribly eccentric, he was and just the sort of thing that one could expect of Daryll Newcombe.

I kept on moving along the island, going westwards, on the wider-than-in-the-waking-state West Georgia Street.

Eventually, in this the sixth dream, I came to the end of the land. I looked out to sea past two jetties that were quite built up. I was high up from the water and with me was a Black man; he was young.

I rather liked his energies. One of the jetties doubled as a wharf in this deep-water harbour. Though it seemed fairly tropical here, I was certain that it was not St. Kitts.

Standing to the rear of my Black companion, there was a wall to my left. Though not grey out, it was also not bright and sunny either. The land went out to the left more and formed a peninsula.

I had a pair of binoculars which I used to try and find the second jetty. I was trying to find the large ship; it was a navy vessel rather than a tourist cruise liner. The ship was rather large.

However, I couldn’t find the bloody thing to be able to have surveilled the deck of the ship. All that I could find was the steely grey of the cold-looking sea. Never did I get to find the vessel with the binoculars.

Soon enough, I was otherwise engaged as a jetliner came into view. It flew from right to left whilst headed for an airport. There were times when this place did feel as if some part of Basseterre, St. Kitts.

This was definitely a Tri-Star L1011 aircraft. Wide-bodied with some red in the schemata worked into the tail and the third engine – which sits atop the back of the fuselage and beneath the tail.

Coming in to land, the plane cut quite a majestic line. The plane travelled unusually slowly which caused me some concern. My companion, though, assured me that he was just making its final approach for the airport. This didn’t seem to be the case to me; for this reason, I asked him when then was it going to deploy its landing gear.

The craft at that point was dangerously close to the ground. It did eventually initiate the deployment of the landing gear. Moving away the binoculars, it did seem to my eyes that the flaps had not opened sufficiently to enable the wheels to drop.

Replacing the binoculars confirmed my suspicions. Still following its progress through the binoculars, the plane then began turning to the left. It was seemingly a standard manoeuvre at that point in all approaching flights to the nearby airport to our rear.

To compensate for having dipped too much, the right wing sharply tipped – in a bid to prevent it from curving too close to the sea. With that, the plane went into a sudden nose dive and landed on the shore of a black volcanic beach.

Skidding in the sand, the plane travelled some distance breaking against the wet sand. The waves were gently crashing ashore; it was not at all a rough sea. I drew my companion’s attention to the fact that the tide began suddenly changing.

This I pointed out was good as it allowed the plane not to move into the water. The craft was veering off towards the right, rather than left, wing. My companion, however, was not the least bit concerned about the plane’s supposed crash landing.

Meanwhile, no one seemed to be the least bit scared. Too, no one was screaming at the unscheduled landing. At one point, the plane’s nose fell downwards and kicked up lots of sand as it dug in whilst barrelling its way along the beach.

It was a muddy consistency as the sand was still fairly wet; it eventually covered the entire plane in a wet sheen of black sand. Ultimately, after having made a sharp left turn facing towards the land, the crashed craft came to a stop.

The rear end of the fuselage was being partially covered by the sea. Still, the tides receded some more and at which point a group of us began rushing down from the cliff to the shore below. We were keen to investigate the crash.

Not knowing what next would happen, I hung back as I feared the worst case scenario of the plane possibly exploding in a massive fireball. A little bit to the rear, and right of the plane the ocean floor dropped off, suddenly.

Beyond that, the ocean had receded to beyond 100 yards. Stranger still, from beyond the receded cover of the ocean up to the plateau came a procession of persons.

There was no mistaking the fact that they came from the ocean. The look of these people was decidedly Oriental. Clearly, they were rushing to the aircraft to try and help pry the bodies or passengers from the crash.

They were there to help out in this emergency situation but there was no getting around the fact that they lived in the ocean. Though wet, they seemed not the least bit affected by the wetness or the cool temperatures of the water.

From my vantage point, high up on the beach, I saw that the aircraft had opened up an emergency exit shoot. Instantaneously, all these bodies came popping out of the craft. This was a horrific sight. Truly it was.

Everyone in the airplane was doused and appeared as if made from rubber. Also, one feature that they all had was that their eyes had popped.

Their mouths were wide-open in the same horrific arrested scream as in the Edvard Munch canvas, The Scream. Clearly, their deaths had been horrific and their final expressions were frozen in death.

Too, from their mouths poured what appeared to be the small intestines, brain matter or lung tissue. They had vomited a great deal. Obviously, from this, one could deduce that the airplane’s cabin had suddenly depressurised.

I got the sense at that point, at which I saw it coming down to land, the entire group – passengers and crew – had already died whilst at greater altitudes. The plane was simply flying itself in on autopilot.

The landing gear failing to deploy was another indicator that the entire crew had died before they had gotten so close to landing the craft. The bodies were all squashed, and atop one another, as though they had been banged around at high altitudes, during the flight.

It was all very sad. Then I noticed a stout woman trying to shove her way free of the craft but the listless bodies proved a formidable obstacle. Eventually, I noticed that there were others who wanted to make their way free of the crashed airline.

These survivors were in a state of shock, not surprisingly, and screaming their heads off. As a matter of fact, they seemed on the verge of savagery in a bid to shake free of the bloated exploded, rubbery-looking bodies that were piled everywhere and obstructed their escape.

One stout woman appeared to be in the process of being birthed by the clamor of dead rubbery bodies piled thick, pouring through the mouth of the escape hatch.

The look of the piled up bodies was tantamount to toothpaste being forcefully squeezed from a tube. Once halfway out of this macabre birthing canal, the woman then turned around.

What seemed like a bid on her part to free her body, from the tangle of listless bloated limbs, proved a bid on her part to pull others free who were struggling to make it out after her.

This was quite the grotesque spectacle. By this time, some of the people began making it onto the beach rooftop from which I had safely been on looking. For fear that the airplane may yet explode in a sudden fireball, I was still cautious about getting any closer.

The rooftop was not especially large. A Black woman came out sometime after the stout woman. She looked completely dazed, and just out of it, as though she were still on the astral plane whilst her body clambered and struggled of sheer instinct.

Truly exhausted, she – like all the others – was covered in a white substance that looked much like rice or stringy pasta. This was a very lucid experience. As much as I wanted to turn away, I simply couldn’t. It was way too garish.

As much as I wanted to turn away from this horrific sight, I was magnetised to its surreal unfoldment. Truly horrific was the experience vicariously. Eventually, the Black woman made it from the aircraft and then came up onto the rooftop with the rest of the crash survivors.

Laying there on her side, as though she were looking for the solace of the womb’s protection, her legs were drawn up foetally. Clearly, she was in retreat. Too, she was experiencing a great deal of abdominal pains.

I had a glass of ginger ale or some such soda. Kneeling down before the Black woman, she rolled over onto her back and rocked herself back and forth whilst writhing with pain.

Pandora da Braga was also here, incidentally, as an observer. She seemed fairly numbed by all the devastation here. In any event, the Black woman wore a brown floral printed dress that was soaked.

The smell of gastro-intestinal acids was rife and stifled the briny sting of the ocean. A sour smell it was. Holding the Black female survivor by the right hand, I bled my very life-force into her and soothed her spirit with the quiet whisper of cooing reassurances.

I told her that it was all up to her that if she wanted to she could definitely survive the ordeal. Too, I let her know that she was merely in a state of shock. As we were all right there for her, there was no need for her to panic anymore.

Important too, I thought, to seek out someone who was Black to comfort her. After all, over the course of her life, the stresses of all-pervasive racism are so Real that her tolerance threshold was already considerably diminished.

She needed not to have been abandoned. I knew how important it was for her to feel not to be passed over, as is socially customary, in this hour of need. There weren’t, anyway, White survivors up on the rooftop.

I felt that it was important to stay there and give my support, rather than run off, lending my energies to the others who were exclusively White.

However, there was one woman in all of this who was beginning to go hysterical; her child was being administered mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

Ridiculously, this idiotic Black woman began screaming at the man to stop kissing her child. How dare he put his mouth on her child’s? This was all a part of her denial – the state of shock into which she had been catapulted with the high altitude incident that had led to the crash.

She had had to be restrained. I gave the glass of ginger ale to the other Black woman and then went over, with Pandora da Braga, to pacify the mother. The mother wore a brownish-red floral-printed dress.

As the others worked frantically, in a bid to resuscitate her, the child was very limp. Then she went stark raving mad, all bug-eyed, saying to whomever off in the indeterminate distance,

Similarly dark-skinned, this woman so much reminded me of Dian Mason. She was, in both senses of the word, truly hysterical. Then she added, licking her lips frantically, and looking so distinctively West Indian,

“Boy, yu wait! If ah live, ah goin’ sue dey f-ing mudderscunt…”

This woman proved the point of one of the most hysterical dream experiences in ages. Offering up some reassurance, I told her that she had to calm down and not get herself too agitated.

I told her that she simply had to focus on calming her nerves. If the child were to survive then she needed to focus instead on the child and not her issues, to which she answered,

“Boy, hush yu damn ass!”

She went wild with rage at my suggestions. Then she turned on Pandora da Braga and made threats of her whilst insisting that it was Pandora’s fault why all of this had happened.

According to her, it had been Pandora da Braga’s idea that she take the bloody flight. Threatening to beat her up, she pounced towards an unflinching Pandora da Braga. And she was a tall woman too, much like Jan Hartley.

With that I leapt in between her and Pandora da Braga, squaring off with her, meeting her eyeball for eyeball as I hissed at her,

“Watch your fucking mudderscunt!”

I was deadly ferocious; my intensity was more than she could withstand. This diffused and centered her energies; she was the first to flinch then stand back.

There was positively no way that anyone was going to attack Pandora da Braga once I was around or alive. The tension diffused, I watched her back as she walked away to go look after her daughter.

There was then a woman, down off the rooftop, to the left of where we stood. Looking down at her intently, she was a somehow familiar Black woman.

It was as though I was supposed to have known who she was. Perhaps, I had encountered her years earlier in a dream. Perhaps, she was from another time… another life.

At the time, everyone was laying blame at Donna Summer’s door. Apparently, the chartered flight had been organised by Donna Summer. The entertainer was headlining at a resort which was a partly owned business venture of hers.

The discussion was about who exactly was karmically responsible for the crash and the number of persons who had lost their lives as a result. The woman down below was there to keep score of everything: who had been lucky enough to survive, who had not.

Also, she sought to learn the severities of the injuries sustained by the survivors. Her record keeping was also on the order of keeping akashic score of who owed who karma in this multidimensional group dilemma of sorts.

Opening nights are always such fun… Tuesday night past, I was reminded of all the opening nights that I would attend with a slightly neurotic Merlin as some show or other that he had directed was being presented to the world… As ever, it was great to see my plus one, Lucian Mann-Chomedy as the ideal partner for these occasions. Always reserved, pleasant and just the right amount of chatter and wit.

Whilst Lucian enjoyed the pre-show lecture in the Four Seasons Centre Amphitheatre, I slipped next door into the warmth of the Sheraton Centre Hotel and warmed myself on a glass of sherry whilst finishing off 2018’s Scotiabank Giller Prize winner on my KOBO.

What an utterly stunning tour de force. It was a moment to reflect, this Black History Month on just where we blacks are in the scheme of things. God only knows, it has been bruising to watch Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex become the print media’s most reviled and hunted fugitive from justice of that most vile creature, the racial predator.

I was still smarting at the events of a week earlier during the winter season’s first major snowstorm. I had been recalling to friends how strange it now was, compared to my first winter in Canada. December 1, 1974 and it snowed that day more than 8 inches. Back then it generally was guaranteed to snow once if not twice weekly. Now at end of January, 2019 and we were finally having our first major snow. This was not like snow from years past… Now it was a dirty, sooty-looking hard mess that lingered, largely in part because the city has contracted out its snow removal services.

As there are no windows in my apartment – Sol’s too damn bright by far and besides, boarded up windows afford me more art-hanging space – I got down in the early afternoon that Monday with my bike, only to be met by falling snow and several accumulated inches. Back up I went, retired the trusty chrome steed and returned and hopped into a snazzy Audi A6 Uber ride with a Macedonian whose spirit was as smooth and elegant as matchingly was his car. The mood set the tone for my day. As I am known to work 16-hr days, I called another Uber at the end of gig one whilst hoping to get to gig 2 in good time. The snow was still coming down; it was also bitterly cold and windy.

When finally, Uber #2 arrived, cold and dark with icy pellets mixed in with the snow, the driver rolled down his passenger side window and declared, “Sorry Buddy but I am going to have to cancel this ride…” Already running late, with my wheeled suitcase at the ready, he edged along as I tried to open the door and raised his voice, his eyes almost feral-looking beneath his turbanned, narrow skull. “I said I am cancelling you. One: I never take people like you in my car. Two: you have a shitty rating… Sorry, not sorry. Fuck you Buddy.” With that, he stepped on the gas and I had to swiftly haul me and suitcase out of the way as the rear of his red older model car whose interior did have that blasted malodorous melange of curry, dirty armpit, dirty arse, smegma and whatever the fuck else that passes for immigrants of choice these days. Finally, after having struggled out onto a still-not-ploughed Bay Street, I managed to hail the fourth cab whose West African driver insisted that I call Uber and report him… Days later, I was afforded assurances that the racist Dravidian was no longer part of Uber’s fleet. Similarly, when calling a Beck Taxi with a fairly generic name as Arvin, on coming downstairs the Indo-Canadian drivers on several occasions as though staying on script would feign obsequiousness and state that they were deeply sorry but owing to a family emergency, they were having to take the cab out of service. No sooner than having refused me a ride, they would then be observed heading out to Wellesley, turning on their unoccupied light and picking up a fare off the road. As if the blasted motherfuck, the likes of your overbred arse invented Jazz.

Each and every time that one experiences racial animus, is preyed on racially, it always harks back to that first winter in Toronto. My best mate from two summers earlier, when I would come to Canada to visit with my dad during school break, had been sick. After Sunday church service at Knox Presbyterian at Harbord and Spadina before returning to our beautiful home at 122 Mortimer Avenue, I would visit – my dad and I – with Tommy who was holding up at Toronto Sick Kids Hospital on University Avenue. My father explained that Tommy was sick with the winter flu, which sometimes could last for months and well beyond winter. I was a scrawny little fourteen-year-old who looked like most ten-year-old Canadian kids as I crawled the halls at Harbord Collegiate where among my mostly Italian-Canadian chums was future lawyer, Rocco Galati. As Tommy, who was a couple of years older than me, had gladly shared books with me the two summers prior that I would take to Knox summer camp and read then have a good stroke off, lusting after my inamorato, Tommy, I readily agreed to do his newspaper route for him until he came home. My first Saturday, the cart was overflowing with the thick Toronto Star newspaper and there was a good foot of snow everywhere. It was hellish but for Tommy, I was game to go the distance – who knows what hot frottage, docking and more was in the offing for having done his route for him! When I got to the northeast corner of Floyd and Bater Avenues that first Saturday to collect the funds, the door opened to a woman whose response to me was the most hideous display of the displaced madness that is white bigotry. Screaming at the top of her lungs, the woman in her upper seventies, vituperatively cursed my black bugger arse off and laid down the law. Never again, “you dirty little nigger” was I to set foot on her verandah.., I was to put the paper between her screen and front doors, knock then return to the top of her steps and wait for her to pay the bill. That first Saturday, she ripped the paper from my hand, flung the money at me. She was terrifying, in her faded blue A-line dress, black spectacles that had those upturned pointed edges at the sides; she wore faux pearls. Most of all, she wore the most hideously terrifying eyes. I remember how much they looked like eyes of a rooster, especially so for being such puffy eyes. Like the evolved, winged and feathered reptilians that roosters are, her eyes truly did look not the least bit human. She was so consumed with racial animus that it was truly frightening. By the time I made it home, I found myself regurgitating. Thereafter, every Saturday, I would take my spot at the top of the steps and consistently she would hurl out pennies mostly at me rather than the verandah where that first winter I had to suffer the indignity of picking through inches of snow on the verandah, steps and lawn to collect my money. Naturally, without fail she called most Saturdays to the Toronto Star, complaining of either not having received her paper on time or that it was missing altogether. This would mean having to buy her a replacement at the corner store, take it and only to be fed on by the hideous-of-spirit racial predator. Like a true cockhound many an indignity I suffered in hopes of my spectacled, full-lipped and scholarly inamorato, Tommy hooking up with me for having been so loyal to him. The summer prior, I had ventured to the public pool on Broadview at Riverdale Park with him and a couple of others and thrilled beyond belief was I to spy his large pendulous balls and that hammer-headed girthsome salami that pummelled his bikinis. Indeed, for Tommy I would suffer much indignity. There was a low-rise apartment building at 1111 Broadview where on the ground floor, there was another predator, this one equally septuagenarian who lived alone, smoked incessantly and always answered the door in various stages of undress, mostly ever only wearing a soiled merino. He was always a generous tipper; a whole 2$ bill in 1974/75 was serious cash. Naturally, in the pre-Ciaslis epoch old anorexic, drunken paunched predator would sometimes tug on the old bulbous semi-flaccid/semi-tumescent, though, pendulous but perfectly useless appendage, trying to lure me in. Sitting there in all that squalor and acting as though he was sugar daddy material… indeed. He was always keen on trying to grab me when giving me the “tip” and I was ever sly and crafty enough to get away from him each time. He, too, lead me to regurgitate, which I had not done since age nine and suffering my first racial attack. Of course, to this day, neither academia nor medicine will concede that there is any such a thing as the racial predator and the effects it has on those preyed on – mostly blacks – and the psyche/mental illness of those who prey on others chiefly non-blacks in varying degrees of severity based on otherness.

Finally, the house lights went down and I was met by the whimsical vista of the COC’s production of W. A. Mozart’s glorious opera, Cosi Fan Tutte. Previously, I had caught productions of this Mozart gem in Chicago, Montréal and New York City. I was not expecting much at this rate. The Frida Kahlo connection was a bit of a stretch but the butterflies fast won me over.

From the moment that she stepped onto stage, my spirit soared aloft higher than Mozart’s glorious music to that point had spirited me. Never before had there been so captivating a Despina. My eyes teared up and I was ever on the cusp of explosive giggles. Then what made me truly come undone was the moment Tracy Dahl took to the stage as the notary… by now, I was losing tears and beginning to emit choked snorted chuckles. Each Saturday back in 1974/75 when doing Tommy’s newspaper route, I would end off taking the Saturday Star to Giovanna an octogenarian Italian, who was plump, charming and more adorable than any mere mortal ought to be. Soon, we were fast lovers and she loved fussing over me, baking me each Saturday nice, warm, oven-fresh biscotti washed down with a glass of ice-cold “gingah raleh”… her thick Italian accent was part of her charm. Hers was a large black and white cat, simply known as pussy gatto, who always sat nesting on the armchair. Each week, Giovanna sat transfixed as I read her the newspaper; her vision was to that point fairly deteriorated. As a way of better forging our bond and because most of my mates at Harbord were Italian, for three years, I studied Italian and that really impressed Giovanna, who was simply known as “Mama Mia.”

As the opera progressed, Ms. Dahl as the notary, dashed and took cover beneath the table at which point, I buried my face in the program with explosive laughter. Straight away, I was reminded of each Saturday when the ever silent pussy gatto would bolt from the armchair and take cover beneath the sofa where I sat as Giovanna began an explosion of long-winded farts. Even the singer’s voice sounded much like Giovanna’s as she sang the role of notary. Remarkably, it was as though she was channelling Giovanna. In that moment, I was healed of the bile, which the recent Uber incident had caused to surface, bile that dated as far back as 1974.

In the end, Tommy’s parents sold their house and it was not until a couple years later that I discovered from the neighbour next-door that Tommy, who had never returned to their Mortimer and Logan home, had died of Leukaemia. Indeed, the winter flu was my dad’s way of protecting me from the callousness of having to lose a friend so early in life.

Apart from the catharsis that Tracy Dahl’s performance personally effected, I don’t think that it would be biased of me to state that hers was the runaway performance in the COC’s fantastic, and fast-paced I might add, production of Cosi Fan Tutte.

As ever, mischievously push down and melt with laughter in celebration of the joy that is life and start having yourselves a most glorious of flying dreams. Thanks for your ongoing support of this happening astral joint on this side of the astral plane. I love you more.

Recently, in the blog: Nancy …. and more, I spoke much of sage entity mate, Milan Newcombe – incidentally, Frans Bloem is also an entity mate. In any event, during that tribute to Nancy Wilson, which also proved a tribute to mature sage entity mate, Milan, I spoke of how for having made love and sleeping together with Milan would frequently trigger the languorous process of astrally projecting from the sleeping body and progressing into the dreamtime whilst remaining lucidly self aware.

Interestingly enough, Jan Hartley whom I encountered on immediately astral projecting is another mature sage soul entity mate of mine and Merlin’s. She is a freak-all fabulous Jamaican amazon, who is just as iconic and statuesque as Grace Jones who happens to be another cadre rather than entity mate. Eden Battersea who appears in said dream, I also dream often of. The energy between us was always simpatico. I think that it is safe to state that Eden is likely an entity mate; however, I have never had her Michael Overleaves channelled.

A week prior to these dreams, Milan and I had been to Montréal where we had quite the time at the 350th anniversary celebrations and parade for the continent’s most cosmopolitan French city. At the time of these dreams, it was Monday, May 25, 1992 and the Moon then transited both Pisces and my natal 9th house.

What I love about this self-portrait of myself whilst astrally projected, is that it perfectly depicts what takes place during the process of astral projecting on May 25, 1992. There are many forms that the body takes on during astral projection; as in the self-portrait, in this dream I stayed connected to the physical body by way of the crown chakra rather than the solar plexus chakra. Dream experiences such as these and the process of moving from being fully awakened in the waking state to remaining lucidly focussed into the dreamtime marvellously validate how beautiful it is to be incarnate; we truly are magical beings – and there were no drugs involved in getting one to groove out…

*Prior to sleep, I did a great deal of meditation and energetic work with the crystals. Soon, I became bloated and expansive and fell into a free-flowing awareness. I saw a very large, slow-moving galaxy-like, cluster of spiral light. It slowly rotated and was the most gloriously hypnotic, grounding experience.

At one point, I too felt as though my body was also turning. All sense of the normal parametres bled away and the room and bed seemed to drift away, leaving me slowing turning in the blackness of space. Milan Newcombe was close by, his breathing while already asleep, kept me grounded. Interestingly enough, the transition from this experience into the dreamtime was almost seamless.

Although, at one point, it had become so displacing that I had had to forcefully grab hold of the bed and force myself to sit upright in bed, to come out of the experience. This, of course, caused Milan to stir but he did not awaken. END.

Dream one. I was on a brown and red-covered bed and it was very dark here. Interestingly enough, as the sense of the room about me fell away, I would find myself on this other bed, in a totally different space. I then had an acute awareness of something being there on the bed with me. It was most upsetting.

I could not quite figure out what was going on. It felt like something like a cat but I knew that Whoopi was not about, since I was after all asleep at Milan’s apartment. By the time of the dream, Milan had already gotten up and moved about the apartment. Also I knew that it was not energetically something as terrifying as a snake.

However, it was very uncomfortable and quite weighted as a matter of fact. Felt as though that just below the edge of the futon, on which I slept, that a hole had opened up in the floor, to the right. Seemingly, a hole had in fact opened up in space itself. The wall of the room was as if also impacted with one of these holes.

This one was considerably larger and more powerful than the one on the floor. Sequentially, it had also appeared after the one on the floor. This thing was so ominous that I felt as though, were I to have gotten up, it would have simply sucked me into its vortex. I knew intuitively that were I to have fallen into its pull, I’d have fallen to my death.

There was a strong sense of them being a black void and very ominous but one which I could not quite see. Simultaneously, my body felt so ridiculously bloated. I just hated the way that my body felt, I literally felt trapped in my own body. I simply wanted to get out of the shell of my body.

At that, I willed my self to get out, to get up. Impatient with the feeling of being weighed down, I decided to astrally project, to move beyond my body. Decided that I had had more than enough of this feeling of being helpless and entrapped by my own, leaden, bloated body. Struggling, I pushed against my own body.

It was as if the blackhole which had manifested beside the bed had so much gravity that it was literally crushing my body. My chest and entire body felt as though leaden, as if strapped in to the bed. I simply could not get up. Since my physical body could not get up, I impatiently said, “Well fuck, I’m going to get up.”

It’s as though, I had been infused by Milan’s very intense nonconformist energy, for which I do so truly love him. “No, Arvin. I have simply got to get up. I will not suffer this.”

With herculean effort, I willed myself to a crouched position then made my way down to the foot of the bed. Turning around, I was surprised to see that my body was still lying, a very slow-breathing shell of a space. Knew immediately that I was astral projecting and did not have to freak out, thinking that this was my death. I also did not want to have to see my body and become overly focussed on it, so that I could really trip out, as it were.

Turning around, I got up, keeping my back turned to my body. When I got up, I was still aware of the great void being there. There was a heavy bleed of energy out the crown chakra, atop my head. This was as if I had the crown of a baobab coming from my head’s crown chakra but a baobab of light energy.

It was funnel-like and spiralled out, then moved back down and outwards, before veering off to behind me to my body, lying asleep on the bed. What was really interesting about the vortices’ energy, was that they had warped the funnel of light energy, out and towards them, before it was then trailed back down to my body. It had the appearance of a not fully vertical tornado that manages to swirl way off its central axis, in the cloud, before making contact with ground.

Getting up, I started walking deliberately, as though in slow motion. Moving with focussed intent, I managed to effortlessly move through the closed french doors, in Milan’s Spadina Avenue two-storey apartment and crossed the hallway into the kitchen. The further I got from the french doors and the magnetic black holes, the lighter I became and the easier it was to manipulate in my light body. I had gone there in the first place to collect messages from the answering machine, as I knew that Pandora had tried to call me from Paris, in the waking state, while I slept.

Who should be in the kitchen but Eden Battersea and Jan Hartley, both Black Jamaicans from the work environment. Jan was very much so in charge and in her element, as she cooked and Eden tidied up the rest of the kitchen. It was also unusually dark here, just as it was in the bedroom, where the holes seemed to suck so much of the light from the room. Eden was by the fridge, except that there was more space at the counter beside the phone and fridge.

Eden was there making a sandwich of some sort. Jan was at the table, chopping of things as she had pots going on the stove, preparing food. She was quite warm and friendly, energetically greeting me. I went to the answering machine to check and see if in fact Pandora had yet called from Paris.

However, there were some problems because I could not find the buttons to start playback of the messages. It was also a quite different machine to the one from the waking state. Now, it was an elongated black and brown affair, very unusual-looking. Jan soon joined me in trying to figure out, how the devil to figure the workings of the thing.

Though she did not squeeze or anything, she then said in that loud Jamaican voice of hers, “Clean it way ma…” I then rubbed my fingers across my nose, thinking of things in the waking state.

*Presently I do have a bad cold in the waking state. There have also been lots of problems since I began growing in my moustache, clogged pours more often than not, turning into puss-filled zits. Ick! I suffer from a patch of ingrown follicles at the same spot in the moustache.

Every time I shave it down, it then gets problematic and soon enough gets infected and puss filled thanks to naturally curly black hair becoming ingrown. Charmant. This, of course, because I also have such legendary oily skin. END.

Cleaning my face with a napkin from the counter top, I would see all this puss on my face. I was stunned by how realistic it all was. Jan was so protectively nurturing of me. Then she began rambling away in Jamaican patois, about not having any trust in technological appliances.

She threatened to send it off to the states where she would have two of her sons, fix it up for her. Finally, she could not be bothered, so was not going to do anything about it. Thoroughly enjoyed her energy. Going up on this ladder, I went up onto a stand, in the kitchen.

This was when I realised that the answering machine was connected to another machine; a black box which had these long beaker-like tubes. They were much like the tubes in the old radios. A little red spark of laser light, powered the machinery. Asked Jan if there were not any calls that had come through for me.

Eden then turned around, looking over her right shoulder at me, when answering, “Sorette, or Soret I think it was, called.”

“No you mean Pandora, don’t you?”

“No, I’m quite sure the machine said Saurette.” Finally, we figured out how the bloody machine worked and it was a strange one indeed. Somehow, the calls were being routed off-planet, not as to satellites, but to another Star system. So I thought that perhaps Saurette was the name of a Star from which the messages came.

Thus it was a static-saturated trunk call but one which was travelling through hyper space. Very interesting. Eventually, we got to a message from Pandora, in which she was saying that she would meet me later. She let me know that she was okay and had gotten my message without any trouble.

i then announced that I was going to go back out to the salon, which is Milan’s quarter of the house. Told them that I was planning to go get dressed and go out and meet Pandora. It was then that I noticed that there was a pair of shorts that I’d left behind at Milan’s, sometime before. More importantly, the clothes that I slept in were there but discarded since of course I was in an out-of-body state.

They were the clothes I wanted to put on anyway. An extra pair of pants sat about; they were jeans. I was surprised to see that I had left so many clothes laying around at Milan’s place. They laid across a chaise longue much like Milan has.

A bed, very shortened, sat on this mattress frame. I had been on it before. Jan came in and took it up, banging it against the mattress frame, shaking it out. I helped her move it, after she asked that I give her a hand.

We moved it from the outer room, which looks out onto Spadina Avenue to the salon where the harpsichord sits. The space was like Milan’s apartment but much larger and much more furnished with antiques. Even here, it was more cluttered than Milan’s beautifully eclectic space. We took it out to the inner salon which here was like a dining room space.

There was another bed there with no mattress, which we were going to go use. We were both barefooted at the time, when she noticed that there was broken shards of a mirror, which were laying about on the floor. Some were even on the wooden bed frame. A medium tone wood, it definitely was not a dark wood.

Jan was so refreshingly good to be around. Really, it was quite a pleasure to have helped her out and drink of her spirit. At this point, I was fully dressed, then announced to her, in a convincing Jamaican accent, “Yeah me dear, me garn gu lang dong ya su, fe book up pan me sista an dem.”

She cackled, enjoying my accent then affectionately waved me off, “Okay den chile, laita on, fu uknu.” As I walked, I began going through the closed french doors of the salon. I effortlessly moved through them as before.

Dream two. In an instant from effortlessly passing through the closed glass French doors, I was posited out on the side of this very, very wide boulevard, in broad daylight. Even for me, a seasoned adept at the exigencies of the dreamtime’s pandimensionality, it was a surprising transition. In an instantaneous puff, there I was, elsewhere. I had materialised along this boulevard, which had no vehicular traffic whatsoever.

The thing about this transition was that I had total and clear lucid continuity of consciousness whilst moving from one dream locale to the next. What was even more bizarre about this, was that I was striding westwards going through the closed door. In an instant, my stride continued but now I was going eastwards, in the opposite direction. It was light out whilst in the company of half a dozen men, who were wearing green overalls.

It was militia garb, tucked into very long, thick riding boots. With them, they carried long black, billy clubs like the London Bobbies. I had also materialised in the presence of Penina, Pericles, Pandora, Isha, all my siblings except as per usual, Rio. It is rare that I ever dream of this man, even in childhood when he was around.

Pericles was wearing a brown silk shirt, over his brown, baggy slacks; he looked very dapper. Terribly elegant and very refined with himself, as well he is. Pandora wore a long flowing skirt that was pleated. White, it was covered with beautiful floral designs in blue and red.

Tiny rose petals, in fact, they were. She wore a navy blue jacket with gold buttons that looked like the classic Chanel suit. Very large-buttoned, this beautiful suit truly was elegant. Isha wore a similar suit but there was more colour and flare in her suit.

A less conservative approach than Pandora’s was Isha’s. Penina’s outfit, I cannot even now recall. Undoubtedly, it was not some overdone number, very low key, as is her style. Functional and comfortable, her criteria.

Incidentally, the secondary players in this dream were Pandora and Pericles. On my arrival, I saw this guy and immediately thought of Karl Weller°, from the work environment. Looking into his face, I said to him, “My god, I thought that you’d have been taller.” We were standing on an incline but were face-to-face.

On closer inspection, when looking in his face, I realised how more so he looked like John Milachek. He looked at me with this look on his face, which was so loving and filled with longing for me. Throughout, he remained silent, never once having said a word. Again, I told him that I thought that he’d have been taller.

He was one of the soldier-militiamen, so that was why he could not get too engaged with me. Though he never reciprocated, it was obvious that the feelings were mutual. Another guardsman passingly seemed like Milan; however, I had not spent much time looking at him. There was an obvious, loving bond between us.

This was also about acknowledging the fact that we had just met in the waking state. But it was all done without words; rather, it was done at the level of soul. It was very electric between us. So thrilled was I that I broke into song, singing and winding up me waist and celebrating.

I wind up on the other guy who passingly reminded me of Milan, without giving so much as a damn what others were going to say. My lips pursed, my arsed cock high, out and ready. Yes indeed, I was ready to rock and in heat, too. Pericles sucked his teeth in disgust, turning away from me, saying, “He’s becoming more and more of a problem.

“And a total embarrassment for this family. I just do not know how we can put up with this. Look, what am I doing here anyway?” Turning around on my heels, I grabbed the long riding whip, from a guy and violently struck Pericles, booming into him, “Shut up!

“I’ll have none of this. I have every intention of expressing who I am and being who the fuck, I am. I’m not intent on pleasing you or anybody.” With that, I continued my frenetic attack on him, whipping him into shape as it were.

“Shut your narrow-minded ass, the fuck up!” Forcefully, I cut him down to size and laid into him, all eyes, whip and rage, “I will have abso-fucking-lutely, none of this. You own nothing here, nor are you running anything. You’re not doing anything, except as per usual to stand here on the sidelines, passing judgment.

“That’s all you ever do. So shut the fuck up!” I was truly livid with him or anyone trying to rein me in. Incensed at this sphinctered rigidity, I abruptly took my leave, turning back to head across the extra wide, deserted

Dream three. Almost immediately, it became the lane up Crab Hill next to our house there. This lane, of course, separated us from the very disputatious Florence Pole°. Just as before, while in the midst of my stride, I was posited from one locale to the next. Again, much was different here.

Though there was continuity of lucid awareness, it had also transformed from bright daylight, to the stark finality of night time. When I came down to the road, the McHughs’ house was there. Going out into the street, I was surprised to find that it was considerably wider than in the waking state. There were lots of ancient-looking bas relief. This was so stunningly incredible. Thus the effect was one of her legs seemed improperly attached to her body. This was all about getting to a Space of Spirit and Intellect, where one was then free to creatively explore.

This was in essence a creative incubator, at the level of the astral plane. After all, everything about this experience from the projection out of my body, lying there asleep behind me, was truly about ascending to a higher stratum of the astral plane. This abandonment was so mind warpingly complex, yet paradoxically simple in its sheer eloquence, that all I could do was throw my head back and riotously laugh. Along with myself, there were other waking state locals there experiencing this as spectators.

We were getting such a high at what these great masters could pull off. It was as if, prior to setting out on their impactful incarnations, this is the astral school where souls like Martha Graham and George Balanchine° went to master their creative expressionism. Quite simply, this was the school where great masters went to work it out, before reincarnating with an agendum to take the world by visionary, revolutionary, creative expressionistic storm. Everyone of these people would evolve the art and styles would be created as a result of these souls attending this astral plane school of high priestdom.

This is the only way to describe the scope of this realm’s essence. These were a very august-souled people, who were mastering their art. The art of pure creative expressionism. They then announced, “Okay, okay, okay.

“Here comes the other guys.” This led to the introduction to the opposing team of players. One of them was seemingly the ancestral forebear of the McHughs, our Crab Hill neighbours. There were obviously a great many Europeans in the McHughs’ family tree, on Baron McHugh’s side.

The matriarch on the father’s side was then brought out of the McHughs and proved a very skeletal, ancient white. She had apparently had a double mastectomy. Very senior easily centuries old-looking, she was borne up by a couple of attendants, who were of Amerindian descent. Everybody then started laughing, all the players on both teams, because she was so full of fear.

She was possessed of an enormous amount of sexual guilt because of her nakedness. Her body was truly bizarre. It was quite concave; it was collapsed in on itself and birdlike. When it got down to the hips, they disproportionately ballooned.

Quite simply, she had a hideous mess for a body. More to the point, it was all about how very uncomfortable some persons in the waking state, of southern Eurpean cultural heritage, are so guilt-ridden. This is about how they see sex as being base and dirty. As a result, such persons become so acutely uncomfortable in their bodies.

There was another white who passed by in a blue and white muu-muu. It was hard to tell which sex the individual was. What was really interesting about this all, is the fact that the McHugh matriarch had been initially clothed, then stripped naked. This is what had caused her such distress.

For being so absurd in her self-denial, the others who were perfectly at ease with their nakedness, had begun laughing at the bizarreness of her. She was lost in her beliefs. The person went down between the McHughs and Saunders residences. Two of the most grotesque thighs supported the gargantuanly hideous body.

They were stubby little legs under this grotesquely bloated body. If that were not enough, there was then a third Caucasian who looked like one of those early washing machines, from the 1950s. The ones that had the roll wringers atop the round-lidded container. This individual was Boteroesque in the true sense of the word.

Very baby-souled, indeed, in focus. Totally ill-proportioned and as well completely ashamed of their bodies. They were so not into their bodies, that they were resoundingly subjected to ridicule. They were a moment of Comedia dell’Arte.

At that, I turned around and walked across the street heading as if towards Florence Pole’s verandah. There were many more steps up to the verandah, which here was quite raised off the ground. Going up on the steps, there were several of the naked giant people seated there, who were laughing their heads off at these freaks of daymare fare. Not everyone was naked however.

Going up on the last step, I sat down to the right, passing this woman. On sitting down, I’d looked down into her eyes, with her on my left. Ahead of me there was a guy standing up, who could have been earlier seated where I now sat. The woman turned out to be pretty much so like the actor Kathy Bates, trying to verify, I called out the name, “Kathy Bates.

“Hi, how are you? You know that year, the Oscars were such a low-key affair and then there you were, breezing in with a spectacular win. You were so refreshing and it was so refreshing. Look, I’m really happy for you.”

She energetically thanked me. Kathy wore a brown large blouse. Refreshingly, she wore no make-up whatsoever, a lot like that other grounded actor, Tyne Daley that way. She was so refreshingly real and normal.

Very clear, strong brown eyes, that were totally self-possessed, centred and contented. Good for her. The skirt matched the blouse, both covered in these daisies in various stages of maturation from bud to full bloom, then on to withering expiration. Some were tight buds, buds breaking open.

Daisies opening, others still in full bloom, still others past their prime. Some after their zenith, some with three or four petals left. A few still with only one withered petal left and some more with nothing but a petal-naked seed pod. There were all very tiny, all the full bloom daisies less than one third the size of a dime.

Quite a beautiful ensemble and I rather admired it while we spoke, from time to time pulling away from the unobstructed beauty of her warm eyes, to look at them. Even for me, it was a bit humbling to have to look into so serene a pair of eyes. Excitedly she called out to a man who was down below the steps, who turned out to be her husband. Energetically, she had him come up and join us.

He was a stout man and he reminded me of the actor, Jeffrey Jones, who played emperor Franz Joseph in the cinematic tour de force Amadeus. He carried a wonderful little child who had the sweetest, sunniest disposition. The husband did, though, have a rather distended stomach. At one point, she got up and went to sit on the edge of the verandah.

I knew that she had gone there because she had found my eye contact a tad too direct, which it always is, whether in the waking state or dreamtime. She had kept on looking away, for no other reason than that my gaze was a bit too intense. I was not upset by it, accepting her choice. Alas, it was not the end of the world.

Her husband remained where he was, originally on her right, with the boy. He was excitedly speaking about what the naked giants were able to pull off with their bodies. He seemed about 37 years old and undoubtedly an actor; theatre or perhaps an acting coach. They were a really refreshing group of persons to be around.

It turns out that they were mostly white on the steps. The boy sat on his father’s lap, wearing a sunny shirt to match his wonderful personality. It was covered throughout with sunflowers in bloom. This little man had such beautiful little teeth, against his generous gums.

Perfect teeth, on the four year old. His hair was brown to black, with a beautiful natural oily sheen to it but one that was not problematic, falling in a bang on his forehead. He had such beautiful, smiling sunny eyes. God it was breathtaking to look at him because here was a soul incarnate in the most sunny of childhoods.

Spectacular! He was happy and a precocious, charmer. As I looked at him and he was smiling, he suddenly got dead serious on making eye contact with me. Time seemed to stand still as the most intense fusion occurred between us; it was really quite powerful.

“I wonder if you are Merlin?” I thought to myself whilst reciprocally looking directly into his. He looked at me saying absolutely nothing, his lips pursed, knowing, then broke into the most glorious, knowing laughter. It was as if to say, “Well, you tell me. What do you think?”

It was very direct and very connected. With that, I reached out to him, rubbed his little thighs, to which he giggled with utter abandon. This child asked so many questions, of adults who actually took the time to be there for him and not relegate him as a bit player in their agenda. Very impressive parenting approach, to which he was focussed.

Goodness, this kid was so filled with life, positive life. Good for him. Kathy Bates then leaned forward, asking after me. She then drew to my attention, the vista across the way where our Crab Hill house used to be.

There had been a fire, burning the entire structure to the ground. Apparently, it was arson but the saving grace was reconnecting with the genip tree, which though considerably larger, towered seemingly more so, without the grounding of the house. The trunk was so thick that I squealed with delight, letting everyone know that I was the one who had planted the mango tree. It had been singed on one side, during the fire.

Remarkably, it had survived the fire and not burnt down, for which I was grateful. Looking across the street to the McHughs’ yard where their truck used to be, there was now a majestic poplar tree and in St. Kitts at that but it was quite sturdy and strong. Quite handsome and though thin-trunked, I was quite pleased to see it in these parts. It was not unlike a columnal oak, spiralling up as it did.

Every time that the breeze blew through it, the leaves rustled, beautifully laughing; it was the most exquisite drink. It affected a great tranquillity to the evolved Chi of the place. Standing up, the steps were quite high, as I looked down into the road. As a matter of fact, the lane was considerably wider and being used here as a street.

At that point, I saw Pericles, Isha and Pandora. I had pulled up my leg, on seeing this young black boy. He was beautifully dark-skinned and slightly over weight. As he walked towards us, on noticing Whites on the step, he immediately became very subdued and self-conscious.

As a matter of fact, he was quite afraid of being taunted and harassed by whites.

*Which finally is a reality that all blacks experience, with varying degrees of intensity and frequency. It was all about the psychic abuse that one is perpetually subjected to. Outright ridicule, crossing to the other side of the street, women clutching their handbags. Being sniffed at rudely and spat at with cutting aggressiveness.

Nasty, animalistic behaviour, all of it. Aggression that is daily perpetuated, to justify the absurdism of their arbitrary superiority. Finally, their acute insecurity about being arbitrarily superior. A very mad, twisted little World that we all inhabit, in the waking state: both blacks and whites, for its a displacement of spirit that we are as if unable to constructively address and affect.

Quite interesting to experience this degree of WST (waking state transference) and I really reached out compassionately to the young black man. Finally, I knew that I could only do so much for him; he would have to make his own way. Penina then came over, bearing this pair of pants that was on a hanger. It came with a pair of briefs attached inside.

She instructed the young boy. She was letting him know that it was time for him to go run the race and she had not spent all this time coaching him, for him not to win. She was her usual feisty self. Humorously, she went about bolstering his spirits.

It served to pull him away from the vortex of predatory racial animus that he was succumbing to. This exactly was what he needed then and there, being spirited away from the black hole of racism. This was about the debilitating effects of racism on black males in the waking state. Excusing myself, I said, “Oh good, there is Pandora.

“Allow me, to go down and greet Pandora, again.” Rushing down, she beamed at me as we warmly greeted each other. Wrapping arms about the other’s waist, we walked away with her on my immediate left. Languorously, we had kept directly looking into each other’s eyes.

You could feel the mostly white waking state humans back on the steps, admiringly looking on at us. Pericles was coming towards us and it was obvious that he could not be avoided. However, we lapsed back into looking into each other’s eyes, in that way snubbing him, letting him know that we had no intention of acknowledging his narrow-minded energy. He was royally pissed off at that, as well he should have.

Finally, we did not care for his arrogance. Isha was there with Gina Morton and some other girlie friends, ponging ‘tory, as is their wont. Hurriedly, I invited Pandora to come along, at which point we walked around the road past the Crab Hill property. I was supposedly taking her to the poplar tree.

Dream four. Yet again things immediately shifted and now it was an entire city block, which was not like anything in Crab Hill at all. Turns out, this strange city had been burnt completely to the ground. Quite so, it seemed to be an industrial complex, with all these exposed frame work of the larger buildings. Many of the skyscrapers here still had their steel ribbing in tact.

It was all very garish a sight. As we crossed, I pointed out all the exposed pipes and burnt out wood everywhere. Somehow, many of these wasted structures had become organically transformed. The wooden beams were now exposed, black charcoaled sculptural signatures.

In one locale, a set of pipes came up out of the ground. Conscientiously, I pointed out that we had better get out of there. My concern was that the pipes were bleeding gas, which was not only invisible but unscented as well. Noticed as I inspected that one of the pipes had a heat vapour rising from where it was broken; this was not a good sign.

So we decided to turn right, heading down this off-street from the major thoroughfare. Along it, there were lots of exposed pieces of plastics which were mixed into the mortar along the side of the road. It was quite interesting to see how this civilisation chose to recycle its plastics, burying them in the mixture to help make more affordable and durable roads. The road did incline downwards as we went along it.

This then took us to this large, old wooden building, which still stood. It was pink with louvres which covered the outside, where just inside there was a verandah with an indoor garden. Glass louvres shut out the elements allowing the plants to grow healthily. But in the very last apartment, I noticed that there were two of them that were totally abandoned.

I was thinking at the time that we could easily move into them. Fixed up, they’d prove wonderful large apartments and a wonderful place to live. Saw no reason why we could not fix them up and end up getting good rates for them, on resale. Arriving at the last apartment, I excitedly announced to Pandora, that it was where Hélène Plotte-de Visage lived.

We were able to peer inside the apartment. It was reminiscent of the cottage that she owned on Ontario Street; however, this was differently laid out. It was then and there that I recalled being there to visit with her, earlier in another dream. It was a beautiful apartment, laid out so that it was like a stage set, on several levels.

No walls just different levels, adding a sense of spaciousness to the space. A piano then began playing, which was soon accompanied by a chorus of singing kids. Realised then that she was a pianist and a school teacher to these kids. We went walking past as Hélène got up to sing a Christmas carol, which they were rehearsing, at all of summertime.

To hear the carol at summertime, reminded Pandora and I simultaneously of our childhood Christmases in Crab Hill, where it was of course a perpetual summer. Looking at each other, we had a moment of true intimacy, smiling lovingly at each other. We were so moved that we sweetly laughed whilst enjoying the tight groove that only the two of us, could have fathomed then and there. Hélène’s apartment was at the end of the complex, that led to a wonderful garden, to the side of the building.

Here the road dead-ended into this beautiful large park. There was a road that ran east-west, because we had gone due south, along the road. The east-west street presented us with a choice and I suggested that we go right and so we did. We walked on the south side of the street, which inclined, with the park close by.

We’d originally turned right to get onto this street. We crossed to the north side to get on the same side of the street as the park. When we got up, this street dead-ended into a plaza before the park. There were lots of people just hanging out, kicking back.

Here, it was very mellow. Mostly, they seemed to be a bunch of hippies, with several of them wearing the same high-riding boots. Though the garb bordered on that of some skinheads, they were, however, not such persons. A long backed, high-yellow woman was there with her family.

She had two daughters and a son. One of the daughters had great potentials of becoming a spectacular model. She did look not unlike the East Indian-German, beauteous supermodel Yasmine Ghauri, though, a younger version. She wore a blue bathing suit, which I noticed when she got up off the picnic blanket to stretch out.

They were in our way but not obtrusively so. We continued along and happened on these very young-souled Americans. We instinctively held on tighter to each other because these people were so aggressively young-souled. It was fairly obvious to us that we were likely to be at least verbally attacked by them.

Thus we chose to shield ourselves from their potentially stinging sarcasm. As we moved along, I was amazed to find that one person to our left, in passing, was Bruno Lambsdorff. Saw another young, high-yellow girl because she so reminded me of Martha Wexler, I called out to her. She wore a white silk blouse.

When we came over, she joined us immediately, holding hands with us and walking between Pandora and me. A dark-complected black girl then came up, whose hair was braided. The other’s hair, like Pandora’s was gathered back in a loose bun. So too was mine, for that matter.

As we intimately progressed, enjoying each other’s company, we were aware of the onlookers, trying to fathom the extent and nature of our connection. It was as though to them, the high-yellow girl was too beautiful to be an offspring or sibling of ours. Most of all, we were gathered thus to shield and protect ourselves against the vicissitudes of rough-going racial animus that foamingly swirled about us. Arriving in the plaza area, the two girls had these yellow-handled camcorders.

The rest of the tiny machines were black, which they placed over their eyes, with their right hands, to begin filming away. Isha started dancing, at which point, I suggested that Pandora ought to go join in the dance. Myself, I let them know that I was unsure whether or not I wanted to be dancing. Pandora was decked out in these high heels, doing these wonderful, elegant movements.

Isha, quite out of character, was also wearing high heels. She was dancing away to which I added, by energetically scatting away. Soon enough, people started materialising, to check out our performance but I, however, did not want to be so hemmed in. Further, I suggested that they visit while I head off to explore some more.

Pandora, however, decided that she wanted to continue along, in my company, so I galdly accepted her offer.

Dream five. We headed off and soon got aboard this tour bus, where there were all these Japanese persons. We began reading this book together; that famous Hindu book of worship. It was a new version of it. It had been updated, because a new religion had recently been born to the world.

This was all very scary for us, as we read on. It spoke about after the history of things. Accordingly, after Lord Buddha there was the ambisexual Buddha, which did not make much sense. So I read the fine print of this blue covered text, of religious writings.

Here there were poems and historical accounts of events. There were excerpts from the Lotus Sutra to the front, of the text, with newer religions in the middle section of the publication. The end of the book, spoke of this new religion’s rise. It informed that the Great Master was known to have been born in Israel.

The complete statistics of his birth, astrologically, were listed. At the time, all that I could think was that he was implying that the reborn Christ was going to be reborn in Israel. Twice in a row, I thought. Talk about lightning striking twice.

This of course was a reference to Christ who had long come and gone but interestingly enough, he was referred then as the Buddha. This was very current; the moment that we stepped on board the bus. The bus seemed to be on Canada’s west coast. This was a very densely populous Asian city.

There were also a ton of whites here, as well. They also had very thick Australian accents. I found it all so bizarre that anyone could so casually be sitting around reading this book. But almost everyone on the bus was.

These people were very young-souled and frenetic. Pandora and I were the only blacks here. Incidentally, who should be on board but a blond guy, who was wearing shorts. He was Australian and stood there, looking down at me because I was reading the book.

Soon, he leapt into this whole sermon that was of a religious, fundamentalist bent. He was, though, not a Christian fundamentalist but a zealous devotee of this newly formed world religion. These people were terribly zealous and went about trying to confiscate the book, from so many people who were on the bus. It just was not right.

I fast blew my cool and leapt to my feet, “Hey now, wait a minute! You have no such, fucking right. Stop it!” The incredible thing about this dream too, was that one had to have a tattoo of the national flag of one’s country of origin.

It was then that I knew that they were definitely from Australia. The Asian tourists meanwhile were very young-souled but younger still than the zealous Australians. They all stood there on the bus, holding it hostage for many people. Stealthily, Pandora had gotten up and charmingly excused herself from the bus.

When I had turned to say something to her, found out that she was nowhere at hand. An Asian man now sat next to me, whose face much reminded me of Rio’s. He was however Chinese and very fat-faced and his face was ravaged by acne. They were eating quite ravenously together but soon it turned out that they could not digest food because they would immediately throw up after eating.

The windows on the bus, were constantly being opened, allowing them the chance to throw up their food. They were like babies whose digestive system were not yet fully developed. This was clearly a reference to where these people were at reincarnationally. They were quite simply a bus load of baby-souled tourists.

One couple had actually had to stick their baby out the window, in a bid to have it fully throw up everything, along with its parents. I was so fucking incensed and had no intention of idly sitting by and tolerate any of this repressive outrageous shit. Shrieking at the standing Australians, I let loose, “Damn it, get off the bus! With your fucking, goddamn-assed insolence… get off!”

At that, I began taking the books, anything and forcefully began ejecting them. When that couple had put out the baby to throw up, a large group of people; mostly whites, had begun piling onto the bus. Some were also Australians but different to the original group of fanatics already on board. The Australian fanatic who had started the attack wore these silver-rimmed glasses, which did not contain the wild intensity of his close-set eyes.

He was tall, wearing unusually short, cut-off jeans. On his thigh was the tattooed flag. The pants were quite ripped up, completing the look were his weathered Birkenstocks. He wore a large backpack, over top his cut-off-sleeved shirt.

This man was very arrogantly blind in his young-souled awareness. Quite gung ho as a matter of fact was he. Of the new arrivals a white couple stood out. The man was so pale-skinned that his near white completion made him glow in the intense light; it was incredible.

He carried a baby of about six months old. Both father and child had unusually large heads, with the child being just as pale as him. At the time, all I could think of was Srivatsan Gurucharan. They were in profile, on the steps at the front of the bus, waiting for others ahead of them to settle in, before they could properly enter.

The East Asians on the first set of seats, had had to put out their child to throw up. During emergencies the windows could be opened from the bottom, which is exactly what was being done. The windows were extended to a maximum of forty five degrees, allowing just enough room for an infant to be shoved through, to vomit. The father held the child by the armpits and the crotch in a diving position so that it could throw up.

And boy did the infant ever go on a binge. Everybody here, had these little bowls that they ate what seemed steamed bamboo shoots and other foods. For some strange reason, all of these adults lacked the capacity to fully digest their food. Pretty soon, I was beating the living shit out of everyone on the bus.

Simply could not tolerate having any of this shit go down. My main target was the bespectacled zealot. Grabbing him, I began kicking and shoving him, to get him off the bus, all the while screaming expletives at him, “How dear you? Get out of here, with your fucking goddamn-assed, stupidity and damn insensitivity!

“Get out!” Using the book, I whipped, pushed and kicked all of them, out of my sight. Frankly, I was surprised at my own behaviour. I had not a clue where I was getting all this energy from.

Just could not tolerate their stinking insolence. They were completely stunned by my energy. They themselves, knew in their heart of hearts that I was wrong. After all I was black, not an Australian.

Though they could not deny my eloquence and greater awareness. Honey chile, I was one wrongly provoked, coloured queen, in this experience. Was going to have none of this shit. Soon enough, I got all of them off the bus.

Those who did not get forcefully ejected, did themselves some good and scurried out of there, knowing that all hell had broken loose and I would come after them too. They knew only too well that this bus was not going anywhere, as long as there was one irate coloured queen on board. You simply had to bail out, toute de suite. We soon got off, when I realised this guy who was seated next to me, was not in fact Pandora.

I went outside in search of her, going up the road. Then when I returned sometime later, realised that the front of the bus had this large staircase leading up to it. The bus driver then called out to me, asking if I was coming along or not. Now the bus was more so like a Hovercraft rather than a bus.

This was a rather long transport and definitely not a bus, though, not a train. So, perhaps, these persons had been throwing up earlier, due to possible sea sickness. Although I do doubt very much, if this were the case. I think rather that this had much to do with the fact that this had everything to do with their being baby and early-young souls.

Dream six. I then went up this hill, where there were lots of tall, beautiful old-souled looking trees. There I found Pandora and she had said very sleepily that she did not think that she wanted to go along after all. She encouraged me to do so but surely I did not have to stay with her. She was being very introspective, claiming that she would rather be alone.

Reassuringly, she let me know that we woud doubtless reconnect later on. She was being accommodatingly amiable. I then went up and climbed over this banister, to get up this iron plank. As I did so, there was a fat, stubby-legged, lobster red, tanned Australian coming off.

He was coming off the transport and passing him, I brushed back my hand forcefully, saying, “Come on, get off the damn thing and get going.” At that, he was sent rumbling down the ramp, though, he had been trying his Jurassic best to inch down, fearful as he was, of possibly falling. I then got back aboard the transport, which when inside seemed, conventionally enough, to be a bus. Settled in again, my stomach lurched at the intense smell of all the vomit everywhere.

It was then that I wondered, if my being on the bus, meant that I too was a very young soul, a la baby or early-young soul at the most. Possibly not even young-souled as yet. I had always thought myself a much older soul than that. After all, look at the degree to which I dream.

On further reflection, I thought that perhaps I was mature-souled. For one, the dreaming suggested as much. Furthermore, mature souls tend to be plunked down in the mire of baby and young souls, who try their every which nerve. Seeking some air, I had turned to open up the window, only to have the smell slap me in the face.

The stench was even worse when I shoved open the window. An up draught brought the putrid smell of vomit on the ground, outside the window, high up my sinuses. Overwhelmed, I decided to awake and be rid of the stench.

*Interestingly enough, when the book spoke about the Ambisexual Buddha, it was clearly speaking of Christ. The dates for his birth, were not using the Julian calendar. It was clearly the Jewish calendar. However this was clearly a reference to Christ.

Here, he was depicted as being very lusty, passionate, with a strong martial element to his body, all of which was borne out by his chart, whose statistics were included. This made absolute sense to me; after all, how could it not have been the case. This was a king soul on his last life. As someone at the penultimate level of old souldom, he would have been very casual and indifferent to the gender preference with regards to matters of intimacy.

All he would have seen was a soul incarnate, a soul which innately has no sex. Certainly, there must have been some physical intimacy between him and the prostitute, Mary Magdalene. In this way he would want to show her acceptance, as well to heal her of any bitterness or guilt she may feel for being a social outcast. How too, could he not have had some moments of physical intimacy with some of the more passionate, older-souled members of his disciples.

Same-sex experiences have always been part of the human condition and certainly the incidence of male same-sex experience, has been widely documented in Middle Eastern cultures.

___________________________________________

To paraphrase Scotiabank: you are more magical than you realise! Put away the crutches and excuses, take a deep breath, accept that you are phenomenal and deserving, let go, move within and start living the magical wonder that is you… and don’t forget to push off and start flying.

A trained and seasoned thespian and possessed of a true sense of theatre, there serenely strode Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex the aisle of St. George’s Chapel on May 19, 2018 after having sniffed out the competition. What does she care about the bald dunce; he positively is of no consequence. When will people ever realise that when you come at blacks with the racial hatred, animus et al, you have given away your power and will never succeed.

Earlier in the week, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex making her initial visit to the National Theatre, after having been appointed the Royal Patronage by HM The Queen.

Mousy… mousy… mouse. Almost tough to watch, though, not really.

Mic drop!

Recently, I had an old scholar soul friend over for tea who decided, in true scholarly fashion, to play devil’s advocate to challenge my prior post about the true source of the rift between the Cambridges and the Sussexes. Actually, it was an excuse to celebrate after my art-filled home was thrown into cold, stark darkness when the heat, power and water to my building simply upped and cut out for four interminably long days.

The preceding video was taken whilst besotted on recently discovered Prosecco, which explains why I could not remember the names of way too many of the artists featured. That aside, I put forth the argument that was it not queer that HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge who had proposed in Kenya still had not made it to Kenya on a tour as it is a Commonwealth nation? Even if Kenya was too predominantly black for TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge’s tastes that left equally African, South Africa – also a Commonwealth nation, which by now they could have visited on tour. After all the RSA does have a large white population and a healthy expat and aristocratic English presence…

Yet there was HRH Prince William Duke of Cambridge in Israel, looking like the duped lapdog of the minor Kents who made no bones, with William’s sanction of course, of their disdain at Meghan Markle being in their midst with the archly pretentious HRH Princess Michael of Kent brazenly sporting her blackamoor brooch to Buckingham Palace on Meghan’s inaugural Christmas Lunch hosted by HM The Queen. Fact remains, Israel is neither a predominantly black nation nor is it a Commonwealth nation; he will one day be the head of the Commonwealth.

In his hard and fast obsessive campaign not to be upstaged by his taken-for-granted kid brother’s unacceptable wife, there was William on the world stage playing god-only-knows what, interviewing a truly stellar scholar soul. How else was Sir David Attenborough to have responded but “Quite indeed” to William’s bizarre remark about “glaciers being like children… unpredictable.”

Far better that he stuck to his limited forays of hand-clasping, feigned blushing and clipped, jolly vacuous laughter after some banal joke – well-rehearsed ahead of time.

William has even taken to openly championing that mouthpiece of his vendetta with Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex and more importantly one which is unprovoked, his brother HRH Prince Henry Duke of Sussex, the DailyMail, in its spring clean up of Britain. Would that DM would truly clean up Britain and stop with the glaring race-baiting, gutter-sniping passing for journalism in their over-arching campaign against Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex. In years past, as DM had no use for Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge, they always published photographs of her when her face is at rest, which is usually a rather cold, stark business.

Now that she has been reclaimed as the great white heroine, try finding any such photo of her. Indeed, their racially predatory and obsessed readership now claim her the epitome of elegance, grace, class, sophistication, style. How like that embarrassing relative’s dog which will forever rush over and start humping your right leg, every frigging time, these hypocrites prove themselves!

Meanwhile, in the ongoing campaign by the minor Kents, William and DM at rebranding themselves as more appealing than the upstart American – that trashy, z-list, social-climbing actress and nothing but Wallis 2.0, they published this soul-baring article by James, the future Queen Consort’s rudderless brother about his mental illness. He, of course, has the bearing of all the men in William’s court; well at least, if he is not tall like all the others, he is definitely dark-haired – there is not a single blond amongst them. William definitely has a type.

Well, there you have it, stay tuned for, The Madness of King George… The Sequel, starring none other than King George VII – that never waves, never interacts, bullied and plain dense nephew of the admitted mentally disturbed and son of the archly dense head of the house of Cambridge.

On one thing, I never compromise, I restated to my guest: you don’t like black people…. GFY!

TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex in Bristol, 1.2.2019.

As ever, thanks for your ongoing support and here’s to your every dream being the most lucid and memorable adventure.

I was walking under a very black night sky. Whilst leisurely walking along a winding road, I was with some friends. The road was not very wide but on either side were some grassy knolls that rolled up and down.

These knolls were just over seven feet high; this left us walking in a bit of a depression. The stars here were unusually bright; there even seemed to be more of them of greater magnitude than is normally the case.

They had caught my attention when something had streaked across the sky. Stopping in my tracks, I looked up and saw others. All of them were red flashes which meteorically streaked, and none-too-randomly, across the sky.

Their speeds were far too rapid for them to have been shooting stars. When drawing it to my friends’ attention, I asked if they did not think it peculiar. These persons, incidentally, were more astral acquaintances rather than persons whom I have known during the course of this lifetime.

They all answered that they had not seen anything. Still, I was quite aware that there was something off. So looking back and up, to our rear, I quite strongly felt that we were not alone.

There was a distinct impression that, from above in the sky, we were being observed. As we walked on, from time to time, I kept looking up. In search of any of the stars which I have so often studied in the waking state’s night sky, I surveilled the sky.

Straight away, as not a single constellation that I took in was remotely familiar, I was left feeling even more vulnerable. Right away, I knew that what I had seen fiercely streaking across the sky had been a product of some alien civilisation’s technology.

This left me more convinced that these flashes had been real and, in essence, not asteroids. Soon, we turned a bend in the road and happened on a guy who was lying in the middle thereof.

He was not dead just unconscious. We agreed to gather him up and at least take him to the side of the road where he would be out of harm’s way. I suggested that we position his body such that his head was raised higher than his feet. I thought that he should be placed on the side of the knoll.

Though it was fairly dark out, I assumed that he was a Caucasian male. He wore brown slacks and was middle-aged. His face was down on the road so it was hard to tell much about his identity.

I couldn’t quite figure out whether he was simply drunk and passed out or if he had fallen ill with a seizure. Perhaps, he had been injured in a confrontational row.

Just as we began moving his body, these red streaks began coming down the street making towards us. They travelled at hyper-speeds and created a sonic boom moments after they shot past.

This definitely was not in Kansas.

*This is a prompt I always give myself when lucidly dreaming and have to take stock that I am not on dream Earth. Too, it usually signifies being in contact with extra-humans (ETs) and their civilisation. END.

In a bid at self-preservation, we began dropping the man back to the road. I decided to dart off, to the right, when I noticed these tiny spacecrafts over on the knoll. They were green and blue with lights emitting from an open portal of the spacecraft.

Cutting through the break in the knolls, I shot past one and bolted across the open plain to a white bungalow in the distance. The craft was atop the knoll, on the right, as I ran off the road taking cover.

I had been the more matured member of the group and had been directing them on what to do yet had abruptly taken flight. I fled because, right away, I knew that they themselves were extra-human aka aliens.

I did not know whether they were posing as good guys, in a bid to capture me, so got clear of them. When they had begun lifting the guy from the road, I sensed an energetic flow from his face.

I think that, were I to have seen the fallen man’s face, he would not have proven human in the least. Thus the extra-human vehicles (EHVs) aka alien crafts’ appearance could well have been a good thing.

In that sense, they may well have prevented me from seeing the face of some bad EH (extra-human) in the guise of a human’s body. Who knows, this fallen stranger may well have been the ruse for affecting my capture?

I was not prepared to find out. I had never bounded across an open field so fast in ages. As I did, the sky suddenly became intensely bright. The lights from an incoming fleet of EHVs (UFOs) flooded the plain.

They fell down from the sky, at light speed, as red balls of light. Instantaneously, they would slow down but not fully brake. At that point, they would then become visible.

It was as though they had set the fabric of space afire, creating the red light about them, for travelling as fast as they did. When they broke to regular subsonic speeds, they appeared as silvery crafts.

They were silver disks that had spokes that rotated arachnidan-like as they landed on the ground. The spokes assisted their locomotion and left the disks looking like chrome-plated spiders in motion.

The spokes which covered the disk’s entirety allowed them to roll in whatever direction they chose. Next, the EHV disks transformed themselves becoming silver and black tanks.

They each had a single, black sonar nozzle in the front. They directed the sonar guns at all the dwellings about and overwhelmed the inhabitants therein with intense sonic booms.

The effect of this would momentarily leave the persons, so affected, paralysed. The buildings here all looked like they were Deco from 1930s, in Miami’s South Beach. The look was similar to South Beach with all those vibrantly painted hotels that line the boulevards.

Here, however, the houses were all white. The area though had a definite tropical look to it. To the rear of them was a tropical wooded area that led up to a mountain range.

Unique, the spacecrafts were very tiny. It was hard to conceive of what kinds of creatures could fit into such puny spaceships. They did telepathically announce that all humans would be paralysed.

*Then again, these EHs and their puny EHVs could have been deceptive. Perhaps the interiors of these tiny arachnidan-like EHVs were 20 to 50 times more spacious than their tiny outer shells betrayed. END.

There was nothing to fear; they were not being adversarial; therefore, they admonished that one needn’t panic. This was not the kind of thing that one wanted to hear.

The mere fact that they could drop into one’s mind, at will, and so calmly speak was more than just cause to panic. They said that we would be protected and provided for; we would not be harmed.

Turns out that the black sonar antennae were used to project their thoughts, at us, on the outside of the craft. They had had it turned up to such a pitch that it would become only applicable to humans.

Part of the sonar’s job though was to put one in the state that facilitated their telepathic connection. Thereafter, of course, it would simply stun us into paralytic submission.

“Get out of my mind!” I forcefully declared as is my disputatious wont.

With that, I decided that I was not going to be readily subjected to their will. I was not going to let curiosity get the better of me and gullibly meet the EHs.

If it sounds too good to be true, of course, chances are that it is. Willingly submitting my will was never my modus operandi. With that I began willing my body, with a fierce unleashing of energy, to flee.

Since ambulatory escape was not fast enough, I threw my body forward and began flying away within a couple of feet of the ground. Not wanting to attract attention to myself, I veered off to the side and made for the stand of trees close by.

They led up the plain to the start of the houses. Several coconut trees were clustered in a stand all around the house. For safety’s sake, I flew past the first house thinking that it would be the first to be searched or captured – what have you.

It was a wonderful sprawling estate; there were even more grounds in the back. Even though it was quite briny here, there was no sense that the ocean was close by.

This, of course, immediately reminded me of Frederikke Sørensen’s estate in St. Croix, U. S., Virgin Islands. All my senses here were quite awakened during this very fast-paced, rather real experience.

Flying ahead, I made for the complex which had a number of low-rise apartment buildings. They were about six-to-seven storeys at most. All of them were built unusually close together.

The more I tried to get close to them, the more my flight increasingly became laboured. It was as though I was being subjected to the EHs’ sonar probe. I couldn’t now achieve the desired altitude to get myself up to the higher storeys of the buildings.

This had the feel of there being forces at play here that superseded my will. Although I had begun my flight low to the ground, the attempts to rise higher left me incapable of pushing upwards and past a certain barrier.

There now seemed some invisible force field activated that did everything to impede my will. My fate seemed, somehow, to have been to experience contact with the EHs.

Regardless, I forged ahead. My flight now seemingly more a diving swim whilst struggling upstream against a strong, overpowering river. Finally, I made my way up to the complex of some eight buildings.

This really did feel as though it were in the Miami area rather than say St. Croix, Hawaii or even Sydney, Australia – the latter two to which I have yet to travel.

The grounds here were beautifully landscaped; quite impressive, in fact, they were. The style was art deco with windows that wrapped about the sides of the corner apartments. Each apartment had its own tiny independent balcony.

Off in the cover of the arboreal growth, to the side of the buildings, I noticed that the EHs had stationed sentinels to guard the captured buildings.

The inhabitants were all trapped inside; they were grounded in their paralysed bodies. The sentinels were not at all human; rather, they were silver, spherical robotic probes that guarded the buildings.

They each had a network of spokes radiating from them that monitored activity; they served as satellites to keep the human inhabitants grounded.

Just before willing my hovering body from amongst the trees, I noticed that there was one particular sentinel; it was hovering at a third storey apartment’s window.

Since I had already begun to move, it had definitely noticed me. Right away, it made for me and came at me. Silver, it rotated clockwise. Soon, I realised as it passed above me that it had not, in fact, seen me; it was simply on a regular timed patrol.

Slowly, I made my way over to the building; I remained undetected. Willing myself with great focus, I managed my way higher and rose up the side of the building. There I went on the side of a balcony and sought cover.

No sooner than I had gotten there that a very stout, Fernando Botero-like White woman came after me. This was the most bizarre infuriating bit of WST (Waking State Transference).

Here was this moronic idiot coming to capture me for the EHs. She couldn’t see me as another human being. I was a goddamn, no good, so-and-so, trying to escape.

Like the programmed shaved rat she has always unthinkingly been, she immediately had to set the authorities on me. In this case it was the aliens because, god only knows, the EHs are “our” friends.

I was a Black male and doing something as unlawful as flying. This woman was truly not aware that she was in the dreamtime. She was brain-dead.

All that she could do was slip into her acculturated attack mode and get my “fucking, Black arse…” Full stop. I was beyond being livid.

Instead of taking a frigging breath and flying with me, she just had to go vilifying me. Together, as humans sharing a common heritage, we could have had companionship and escaped together.

Rather, I was some N-word out to loot her of all she had that being: mere material things and fuck-all else. She was hideous to the core. She wore white slacks and a pretty floral top looking like a Floridian, living comfortably off her investments or a dead partner’s conveniently-early demise.

She did have great big knockers on her – real bouncy cockteasers. However, a real greed-fixated, objectionable character she was. In addition, she did have somewhat of a deep tan.

Her hands were fat and stubby-fingered denoting heart trouble brought about, no doubt, by too much drink, smoking and or iatrogenic sloth. She lunged for me grasping at my body. I managed to stealthily out-dodge her and escape.

Quickly, I made it back to the cover of the woods close-by. Somehow, she seemed able to levitate. It was then that it dawned on me that she just might have been a very convincingly disguised EH.

It was effective because she surely came off as a fearful racist idiot and, of course, those tit-fuck magnets were ample bait.

*This was quite an insightful take on life in the waking state. For, to all intents and purposes, there are really EHs among us. Of course, it goes without saying that my initial perception of her reeked of my own WST ignorance.

The way in which a sizeable portion of the humans collectively relate to other humans, certainly and in particular Blacks, you would think that they were EHs dreading contact with the locals. END.

Swerving off to the left, I had been able to fly clear of her reach and the balcony. Into the thick growth of tropical trees I flew. As soon as I entered the woods, I was immediately free of the weightiness that kept me close to the ground.

Straight away, I soared higher. Thanks to the trees’ invigorating energies, I was immediately energised. It was as though they were able to override the EHs’ psychic web giving me renewed strength.

They were able to strip me of the wear that the EHs’ sonar force field had exacted. Momentarily pausing, I hovered upright, directly drinking of the large trees’ energies whilst recharging my chakras.

As my energies increased, thanks to the arboreal hosts, my body began slowly levitating as I hovered upright. Now I was high up, for being fully energised, in the bosom of their expansive negative-ioned crowns.

With that, I continued my escape and decided to stay within the cover of the woods. Above all, I wanted to be in direct contact with the arboreal giants’ distilled loving energies which had revitalised me.

Even though I was now higher, I still wasn’t able to fly at great speeds. Whilst flying ahead, I began following an old footpath way below. Instead of directly flying above it, I hung back to the right of it and well inside the cover of the overhanging trees.

There in the thick of the wooded area, on the footpath below, I saw a couple of guys. When looking up, they saw me right away. They laughed at me knowing that my attempt to escape was futile.

Though they looked White, I knew from their laughter that they were EHs but in human disguise. What had really caught my interest was the way that they laughed. Whenever they did laugh, they looked at each other and aggressively nodded.

There was something peculiar about it; it just wasn’t very human. They were not, in essence, simian. This was when it dawned on me that, when they were on the planet, these EHs were able to adopt host bodies.

That is to say that they simply manufactured bodies that they then inhabited, at will or when required, that covered their true species’ identity. In their natural state on their home planet, however, they did not look a thing remotely simian-mammalian.

They wore human bodies, much the way one would wear appropriate gear, when going on a trip to the Antarctic, the Amazon basin or the Sahara.

It was all about adapting, truth be told, so as to survive the terrain. For these EHs, they wore a human body as it was akin to wearing a wetsuit when going scuba diving.

Somehow, they were able to shift their forms and adopt the human model. This was not just local to being planetside on Earth. These EHs had the capacity to adapt. Therefore, they became whatever their host species looked like on the planets that they chose to visit.

They were quite simply more reptilian, in the chameleon sense, than simian-mammalian. Whilst I hovered there, reflecting on all this, I realised that the woman on the balcony was there to pacify and blend in with the human locals.

She, however, was definitely an EH and her racist response would only make her seem that much more authentic. Ingenious! I do believe that this chameleon arrangement is likely more so the norm for spacefaring interstellar civilisations than not.

It makes for fewer traumas on the uninitiated galactic peasants – such as humans. Whilst hovering above them, I had an expansive awareness of how this would be possible.

Basically, for being off one’s home planet, one was as if at the astral plane between lives. The moment you went into alien space, about another star system’s inhabited worlds, you were not physiologically constrained.

Unlike the locals, an alien on another planet was free of the host planet’s set of electromagnetic, astrophysical, neurological, physiological and psychological constraints.

This, for all EH species, made being on another planet a truly liberating experience. During the flux of space travel, more of the will came into play and one became more so creator than the created.

That means that the intellect was greatly expanded. Once free of indigenous planetary constraints, an EH could morph its gravity-free neutralised body at will.

In terms of the Michael Teachings being spacebound was tantamount to having neutral Overleaves. When one was in the space of a desired alien planet, one could simply construct the right overleaves from the neutral base. This would allow one to adapt and blend into the local vibrational imperatives.

Thus one did not have to use, by way of possession, the body of a local – too much potential karma there. In some situations, the EHs simply manufactured bodies that served their needs and were applicable to the desired alien world.

Like walking with a couple of wetsuits, if going on a scuba diving trip, so too the EHs could show up prepared with their own prêt-à-porter human bodies.

‘What might the “made in…” tag be for such off-world fashions,’ I wondered.

By keeping to my agendum, I flew past them whilst thinking of escaping this whole experience altogether. As I flew past, one of them remarked that he did not realise that we humans had the capacity to levitate. Said he, he did not realise that we were so evolved.

However, then shrugging, he added that levitation was but the tip of the galaxy. This was his telepathic image which I had initially mistaken for a slab of ice in space. That had made me think of an iceberg but it clearly wasn’t.

He was referring no doubt to a whole host of skills, which they possessed, that we as a species had no awareness of. Space travel was implied by his smug dismissal.

Again, they laughed, aggressively nodded and sounded like a mix of semi-feral hyenas or wolves rather than simian-stocked humankind. On flying past them, I then happened on three Black guys who were also in the woods.

They were all naked and fully aroused. Theirs were cocks easily fourteen inches apiece. They stood there, side by side, energetically masturbating.

The guy in the middle had an upturned dick on him. Of the three, he was jet black. The man on his left was brown-complected whilst the other was High-Yellow. The guy in the middle’s cock grew harder by the second.

It was incredible to watch a cock grow so huge, so rapidly. Thicker than a tasty Polish sausage, it was uncut and a prized sight. Again, close observation of their behaviour indicated that they were planetside EHs in human disguise.

Everything about them said that they were not human. From the formation that they stood in, to their complexions, they simply were not human. Even to their obsession with having an orgasm, theirs was behaviour that was not human.

It was a study of human sexuality – the way they stood there holding their mammoth dicks and jacking off. For all intents and purposes, they were three EH scientists doing research.

They were collecting data whilst exploring the human experience. As well, their oversized dicks were a tool for getting unsuspecting locals to become addicted to them.

Their wunder-schlongs could easily hypnotise one into becoming their prey; they were, in that sense, a true size-queen delight. More than that, part of their reason for being there was so that they could get me enthralled.

Since I had already been able to effectively escape, both the fat woman and the other group of men, they used their big sex to make weak-willed size queen of me. This was plan B – get him by way of sex.

Frankly, I was no dumb native so chose not to settle for their transparent bait. With that, I kept on flying through the woods. There was always something to the eyes of these people that ultimately gave them away.

They simply did not have an instinctive psychic bond, for not being genuinely human, which right away one could discern. This was a subtle distinction which we humans so overlook. However, it has become part of the instinctual wealth of information that we psychically exchange when interacting.

These people just never had that connection that rung true. There was just that indefinable something, which eluded them, for being EHs. I then followed the forking path that went off to the right.

Soon, this got me out of the woods and to an area where there was a large group of Blacks. They were all media people – print, television, radio, film. All of them were hiding out on the corner of a large building.

They were filing a report on the EHs by huddling and filming the goings on. They were in the process of filing a live report. After I cleared the woods, I noticed some EHs just beyond the edge of the woods. They were unmistakably EH and in broad daylight.

They were dressed in late-Georgian, early Regency garb. The men wore lots of white lace and tight long pants. They were all terribly aristocratic-looking; they were very European in style. There were even a couple of horse drawn carriages.

It was as if, these EHs were a bit off on their choice of timeline. For the look that they were affecting was clearly off by multiple decades. They were involved in projecting their consciousness to appear as human as possible.

However, they were all off by at least a couple of hundred years. This served to show up their techniques for space travelling and how they made contact with the locals.

They simply blended in. In that way, they could be in the alien world doing their research without being an intrusive presence. This glaring miscalculation ultimately wouldn’t help them in their work.

Unperturbed, they kept calling out to the group of Black media persons. They were trying to get them to come closer to them. They knew that they were being filmed; however, the humans simply hung back and kept on shooting to document their presence.

Frankly, from their perseverance, it was obvious that the EHs were intent on capturing us. I for one did not want to join in a group. As a result, I chose not to get too caught up with the media people.

In my attempts to flee them, I had comfortably remained hovering in the air. I had refused to alight and come down to earth. However, I had been above the group of Black media people and around the edge of the building’s cover.

Some Blacks in the media party looked on at me as though to try and figure out if I was one of the EHs. They were soon assured by probing my energies that I was genuinely as I seemed; not an EH was I.

Finally, I decided to take my leave of them as they continued their standoff with the aliens who were across the road and wide-open field.

The building was a red brick affair. It stood, down an incline, lower than the road it faced. Making for the road, I now flew of choice fairly close to the ground.

There was a great deal of verdant grass on either side of the road. On the right side of me, rushing across the expansive field ran Pericles from the woods as I flew some twelve feet above the street.

He was joining Isabella and the other siblings – Isis and Pandora minus Rio da Braga, of course, about whom I almost never dream. They stood there in the fields, like many others, who were all intrigued by the idea of seeing the EHs.

Concerned for their safety, I excitedly began to shout down to my siblings to get lost and go take cover. Pericles joined them, just shy of me and below. He was considerably stouter, darker and slower.

As currently is the case in the waking state, he was bearded.

“Boy is me who taught him how to fly in dreams you know!” Pericles began saying of me.

“In fact, I was the one who invented flying in the dreamtime. I’m the one credited in history as having invented flying in the dreamtime…”

There and then, I became summarily disgusted by Pericles’ ridiculous megalomania. For all his pomposity, in the true sense of the word, I realised from where I hovered that Pericles was a very small individual.

With that, I took my leave of them. I realised that this was a group of people who could only ever have a hostile response to me.

Pericles being there, doing exactly what he did, was the chief reason for my position in this dynamic. Furthermore, they were never going to take him to task for it.

When I encountered them, on that stretch of the road, the sky though daytime out was now overcast. It seems that there was going to be some storm up ahead.

Before taking my leave of them, I boomed down at Pericles telling him to fuck off. Isabella had hung back and rolled her eyes. She then cracked a wicked grin at his absurd nonsense as bullshit eloquently flowed from Pericles’s beguiling lips.

*After I left my siblings, I thought back to the two EHs in the woods who were disguised as White males. I had to agree with them because, indeed, it would mentally take a great leap to become a spacefaring civilisation.

Frankly, the approach on this planet was futile. It was, in fact, an ill-conceived approach to things yet it was perfectly understandable. It was born of the same ignorance and arrogance which had informed the exploration of the New World.

The key to successfully making the leap, to being a spacefaring civilisation, was intellectual – as per astraphysics. That is to say, using the interior realms, the astral plane as the basis for exploration was the answer.

Space travel is about projection of consciousness when being in an elevated state. It is a state of being in which both intellect and spirit are harmonised leading to true travel.

Travel without moving; this was the way to cross the expanse of space. For being astrally focussed, one could use the astral plane’s physics to be able to span the illusion of space to travel to any point in time across space.

This was not something that was chiefly done by physical means. Presently, there is no connection between man and his being in human space travel.

This is directly because this is a Eurocentric approach. A direct result, this is, of Western civilisation being divorced from nature. The ultimate nature is internal.

Spirit, intellect and body are nature. The present arrangement’s approach has not yet made the connection between man and nature. There is no input of the astronaut’s spirit or for that matter his intellect.

It is all rote behaviour; they lock themselves into their harnesses and hope like hell the computers don’t fail and that they don’t end up like another Challenger space shuttle.

Machines do the job rather than nature; the astronauts themselves do not do the job by having their intellect – their interior realms – interface and fly their spacecrafts. In that sense, they are very much so like the test dog and chimpanzee that were sent into space. Today’s astronauts are currently along for the ride.

This reflects Westerners’ heritage of being divorced from the nature within themselves. It was this lack of awareness that had them arrogantly kill and rape the New World’s inhabitants to secure their place therein.

There was no room for cohabitation because they did not see the humanity, the nature, in the locals that they had encountered. The “natives” – the derogatory for the locals whom they encountered living in synch with nature – were an obstacle to their agenda. For living in accord with nature, the New World’s indigenous inhabitants would pay.

This, of course, harkens back to the message which the great master, Lord Jesus imparted,

“Love one another and live in accord with nature.”

Of course, for that he was murdered; ever since, this planet’s dominant civilisation has lived out of synch with nature. Nature, as Christ imparted, was simultaneously internalised as well as externalised.

The microscopic mutually reflected in the macroscopic. This was not gleamed two millennia ago; to this day, it has still not been gleamed. Thus the prevailing cultural paradigm would have us cross the exigencies of space by forging ahead against nature.

Nature is therefore an aspect which we don’t see being innately a part of us. To go outwards, one always has to move inwards; it is the only way to grow. By looking within and harmonising his nature, man would finally be able to move without and engage in successful space travel.

All that the present spacefaring attempts suggest is how very out of synch, with nature, man has become. All it does is waste time and demonstrate that greatest sign of being out of synch with nature – the damn thing pollutes!

When this internal harmonisation with nature occurs, a fusion between the waking and dream states is affected. In this way, one is able to project the more evolved aspect of the integrated self, the dreamer self, into the waking state.

The waking intellect when fully aligned, with the dreamer self, enable one to project consciousness to anywhere in the universe. The focussed will enables one to move in an unrestricted manner to any alien world.

This is because a revolutionary shift occurs with the harmonisation of inner and outer nature – waking consciousness harmonised with dreamer consciousness. This fusion of intellect and spirit results in the emergence of Naturali.

Unlike ‘Human,’ Naturali or Natural Mankind is able to manipulate both physical plane and astral plane physics thereby becoming truly magical – magus. This fusion allows him to project his Naturali self, into any point in space within and beyond his native Star system.

This is about becoming limitless in perception. Naturali is never self-restrained. This has been achieved and continues to be experienced by some societies in human history – be it in parts of the Himalayas, Andes, Amerindian plains, pre-Dynastic Egypt, the Aboriginies of Australia, some First Nations societies, some Europeans like the Druids and the Dogon.

In these cases man has made the leap from being merely human to become Naturali. Humanity is chiefly divorced from nature – his true self. For that, humanity is primarily caught up in being divorced.

Fragmented mankind is lacking in harmony between inner nature and outer self. This has led to the culture of senseless and perpetual warfare that has predominated in Western civilisation for the last two-plus millennia.

The result is an unevolved expression of our potential. There is little awareness of true potential. There is, however, much inner chaos and all of it is graphically illustrated by paradigms which do nothing but perpetuate this lack of fusion.

The negative paradigms, resultant for having murdered yet another great master – Christ, create imbalance which leads to all the ‘isms’ from which one chooses not to escape: lookism, racism, ageism, sexism, classism. For that reason, most of these EHs are master dream adepts because they are able to use this fusion of inner and outer nature to transcend the boundless limits of space.

Ultimately, the limit of space is purely intellectual. In a sense, it is a good thing that the present arrangement exists. All that would result, if present human civilisation were to become spacefaring, is that they would exactly repeat what they did on venturing into the New World.

Since then, this culture of rape and pillage has never been addressed. This is because the former Europeans have been too busy having to police their appropriation of looted territory and enslaved and or terrorised peoples.

Never having had a chance to reflect or transcend their blind conceit, there has been no internalisation. This precisely is the leap necessary for that harmonisation of mankind’s integral selves.

A spiritual transformation is necessary that would enable Western civilisation to then truly become a starfaring civilisation. In the meantime, the mercantile paradigm rules as this planet’s prevailing order. The alternative doesn’t now, of course, seem practical because how can you set up shop and trade in the dreamtime?

This is how perfect and right the current, prevalent, Western paradigm seems. However, it is an awareness as uninformed as the conviction 500 years ago by some that to sail beyond the horizon would lead to falling off the flat Earth.

Thus these EHs are able to project their spacefaring dreamer self civilisations, in this case, to Earth. Interestingly enough, this was validated by the stars in the sky being not familiar in the least.

They were the familiar stars from the night sky of the EH race’s homeworld. This is part of the necessary anchoring, for the EH stardreamers, to successfully return to their homeworld. They appeared as technologically advanced because they were not in their homeworld’s dreamspace. END.

After leaving my siblings behind, I flew down above the narrow road. A lone, dark pine-green house stood on the right side of the road. It was a two-storeyed wooden house.

On seeing it, I flew over and approached the front door. I decided to go take cover inside because one of the carriages, in which the EHs rode, was barrelling down the road after me.

Both carriages were being drawn by two white horses apiece. The carriages were dark, high, wooden affairs, not black though, like Amish ones. A man was calling from the carriage to follow me.

On going into the front door, I was met by a narrow foyer. At the far end, there was a winding staircase. Even when in the hallway, I was still levitating. A tall jet-black woman was washing the walls.

On closer inspection, I realised that all the walls were slowly undulating. This, to say the least, was displacing. Truly surreal, the walls were never static. In that sense, one had an awareness of the house being alive and breathing.

The feeling was very nurturing; womblike and soothing it was. The walls had warmth to them; their surfaces looking as though liquid. The woman kept on intently focussing on her task.

Meanwhile, on the wall to my right, there was a dish detergent ad being run. It was most bizarre, the entire wall was being used as a screen onto which was projected the advertisement.

*Whilst I slept neither the television nor radio was on. END.

The wall was as if a tiled ceramic screen. At the far end of the hallway, through an arched doorway, I looked. There I saw a clock at the centre of a mantelpiece.

About eighteen inches tall, the clock was a white, blue-with-some-green, ceramic timepiece. It was columnar and had a phallic look at the top. It was more so, however, like the arched roof of a hut than not. It was the most beautiful piece of ornamentation.

It had the look of a Ming vase; it was even more ancient-looking than some of the oldest surviving pieces of Chinese objets d’art. The green was really from so many centuries of being in a damp environment which left it mossy in places.

In addition to that, there was a yellowish hue to the vase-like body of the timepiece. This, of course, bespoke how terribly aged this vase-like timepiece was. It would suggest that this was created in an age that easily predated the Ming Dynasty by multi-millennia.

Struck by the ethereal qualities of this house, I looked back at the walls. They really were undulating, in a truly Salvador Dali†-like surreal manner.

Looking back, I noticed that the clock was no longer static. It began warping and drooping over and it did so to the point where it was hard to ever make out the time.

I could make out that it did have two hands on it. However, the clock was hypnotically doing this slow undulating dance. It meltingly drooped from side-to-side in a manner that was sublime and genuinely surreal.

I then made my way into a bedroom leaving the Black woman behind in the hallway. She seemed to be getting more and more disoriented but I knew that, in the end, she would be okay.

This bedroom was on the ground floor from whose window I could see out to the backyard. All around, the sunken house looked up to an open grassy knoll.

So though on the ground floor, when looking out the window, it seem as though one were permanently in the basement. On hearing the carriages pulling up out front, I had gone there to take refuse.

In the room was a singer who reminded me of Sinéad O’Connor. Her scalp was near-shaven – but for the blond bristles that spiked her head throughout.

She was dressed as a cave woman and also carried a staff. This seemed to be all part of a stage persona of hers. I silently watched as she got ready to, it would seem, go perform.

She seemed to be a rock ‘n’ roll singer. I assumed as much because of her shaved scalp. She was very tanned and looked almost as though she had been permanently singed. However, it was not as though she was of Dravidian heritage either. Hers were a great pair of Sagittarian thighs; they were very Tina Turner-like legs.

She wore an animal skin toga with a side slit skirt that nicely showed off her body. On her feet she wore a wonderful pair of brown, leather high heels whilst frantically pacing about the room.

She was cursing out, ‘these stinking aliens,’ at whom she was imaginarily jabbing with her club. The arrival of the EHs had obviously interrupted her ascendancy to fame and fortune.

Then a very strikingly handsome, dark EH appeared; he looked tanned like the actor, George Hamilton – that perpetually Sun-darkened stunner. There were lots of sage soul energies to his look. He appeared in the single window to the outside.

When lit from behind, it only made this obvious EH’s intense-frequencied eyes and handsomeness that much more stunning. Charmingly, he came in through the window and said hello extending his hand to her.

This man was supremely charming with lots of Mars-Venus-Pluto trine energy. His outfit was more so Regency than Victorian with frilly sleeves. He was a dandy from the look of his dress and cultured mannerisms.

This man was more charming than the most exquisitely celebrated courtiers, in human history, have been. This man’s cultured fluidity made fashion designer Karl Lagerfeld look downright bland by comparison.

His shirt ended in a high-buttoned collar that made it look as though he were wearing a turtleneck. A great flair and air of bravura about him yet he wasn’t flashy.

He was sophisticated and possessed of a slightly flared, sexually charged nose. In that sense, he rather resembled the sexual beauty of the actor Ralph Fiennes.

His was a wonderful spirit with great theatrical timing to his persona. Regardless, his EH identity being anything but human, his true nature shone through. This extra-human was undoubtedly a sage soul.

Jet-black hair was brushed up and back off his high-foreheaded face. Two arms fell down, in thick sideburns, to hug the sides of his handsome face in place.

This man’s intensely riveting eyes left Tom Cruise’s, in terms of his eyes’ sheer magnetism, looking like the vacant eyes of a grinning oaf; certainly, this is not the case with Mr. Cruise but comparatively his eyes seemed dull next to this EH’s. A devilishly handsome rogue of a man, he was.

On seeing him enter the room, I went and slipped under this wonderful, antique chaise longue. Since I was still in flight, I hovered beneath it, never touching the floor.

He had been directly focussed on the woman when entering the room. I don’t know who this woman was, she did seem human enough, but it was clear that his objective was to capture her.

Perhaps, she was an EH disguised as Earth human – one who had become lost in her fulfillment of her mandate. It would seem that she had gotten hooked, working as a performer, on being a star on the rise.

Though I was beneath the chaise longue, I was able to see everything going on inside the room. The sagely EH in dark Regency garb entered the house by effortlessly walking through the window, including the wall beneath the window, when entering through it.

Though he could easily have hopped through the opened window, he chose to state his resolve and let nothing stop in his way. He telepathically overpowered the woman.

Though deceptively extending his hand to her, I could hear him hissing at her which caused her to drop to her knees. Then he told her, that she needn’t worry, that there was nothing for her to fear.

She was truly terrified. She was pleading with him to not kill her. He grinned at her. His was a smile that was nine parts guile with a surface veneer of charm.

Though I was hovering beneath the chaise longue, I had another perspective of the room. I was as if perched aloft and just below the ceiling. This left me with two simultaneous perspectives.

From beneath the chaise longue, I could see up to the two persons’ knees. From above, I saw everything and was never noticed by either person below. I had deftly rendered myself invisible.

He was so dark-hued that I passingly thought that he could even have been High-Yellow. When this man smiled, the room simply lit up. This was a truly hyper-wattaged smile.

He was a swashbuckling dandy; one whose handsomeness was also very reminiscent of Douglas Fairbanks Jr.’s. He then began stroking her left cheek. Meanwhile, I sailed out from beneath the chaise longue and began levitating to a higher position.

I slowly flew over to another window from which I got a really good look at things. After having crossed behind him, I turned to look back just in time to see his next move.

From his right pocket he took an object; it looked like a large, halved oyster shell. This object was just as gossamer-hued as an oyster shell’s interior; clearly, it was no such thing.

He then placed the object to the left corner of her mouth and her jaw line. Whilst kneeling, she pleadingly looked up peering into his soul. Her ajar generous-overbite mouth negotiated with him.

She did her best to appear cool and diffident. She tried her best to be alluring to him. He was so much more handsome than her. She pleaded with him not to hurt her. He replied by telling her not to worry.

With that I turned to fly through the window, to his rear, in which he had first appeared. Just as I drank in the warmth of the beautiful welcoming light outside, she let out a broken scream that pierced through me.

Looking back, I found the sagely gentleman. He was holding the charred remains of her body, inside the groove of the nacreous, oyster shell-looking object. The shell-like object was smoking with the reduced remains of the woman’s body. It was a truly horrific sight.

I realised that this oyster shell-like object was, in fact, an accumulation of all the persons whom he had murdered to date. Her charred body had added to the size of the object. It was easily one third larger than before it had been.

Not a single drop of her charred remains was anywhere on the floor. This validated that this woman knew the meaning of the object that he had procured. She was clearly an EH; she was being terminated for having failed in some way.

I wondered if it meant that she was being returned to the homeworld incarcerated. Perhaps, rather than being killed outright, she was merely being arrested though it looked like being assassinated on this end.

For being in a human bodysuit, whatever her natural state was, this nacreous oyster-like object was specifically designed to capture her. In its wake it left the shell of her former self.

Clearly, their human bodysuits were not authentic hard matter. It was partly holographic, seemingly an astral phantom, if you like. Either way, the whole thing was fairly sinister.

Well, I had seen all that I wanted to see. It was time to click my heels and fly on home and away from this Oz! I instantaneously was out of there.

When jetting free of the window, I soared aloft and jetted for the cover of the far-off woods. These arboreals were behind the house. I made it there with lightning speed.

The arboreal energy precisely was what I needed to speed me along. I became magnetised to the arboreals’ energy. No fear clamoured my thoughts; I wanted the devil away from this place.

Faster and faster, I kept on flying using the trees’ energies. The arboreals’ life force proved the raw fuel that jetted me along. On flying in amongst the tree crowns, every branch and trunk that I negotiated only added to the thrill of my escape.

Their raw energy actually sped up my vibration and allowed me to fly faster. The faster I flew, the more their energies bombarded me and allowed me to escape being overtaken by the sagely rogue.

Eventually, I happened on a large industrial complex. It stood directly next to the break in the woods. I had simply been catapulted from the woods and into one of the tiny windows that sat high up the side of the building. The windows were close to the ceiling.

Once inside, I sought to take cover. At this point, I was confident that nothing was certain any longer. Even my family seemed initially EH! That is until, of course, Pericles began spewing his delusional ya-ya.

My presence seemed to have set off an alien surveillance system. It was seemingly designed to go off on the detection of humans. Straight away, a fat White woman was dispatched to prevent me from trying to escape.

She was told to not let me through an exit close by. She had been directed by an even fatter, Fernando Botero-like White male who wore military garb.

All these fat people only validated my suspicions that the woman on the South Beach, Miami-styled, art deco apartment buildings was, in fact, an EH.

All these abnormally fat persons were all EH who paraded about in human bodysuits. Somehow, I suspected that there was some atmospheric reason for their suits bloating and thereby leaving them seemingly dysfunctional as they did.

Then too, perhaps their natural bodies made the largest dinosaurs look comparably like ants do to us humans. The plant seemed some military installation or other.

Perhaps, it was a communications installation for their Gaian operations. A high and black-haired, done-up-in-a-bun woman in a pink dress had opened the exit.

I was trying to make it through, however, soon realised that she was there to prevent me from getting out. Then through a bar she levitated when lying on her back.

She was accompanied by the military-garbed rotund man who also levitated on his back. He, however, was on the other side of the bar. Sadistically, the general squeezed the fellow-levitating woman’s hand.

Right before my eyes, he then began a metamorphosis; it was, in fact, quite rapid. In the end, he went from being an obese hideous man to being a svelte blonde woman.

This was all the proof I ever needed that these, indeed, were no mere mortals. The bars looked like the harnesses, which pen in bucking horses, at a rodeo. This complex was quite an unusual-looking place.

For one thing, it was easily larger than the largest, American military hangars, by a factor of ten times; it was massive! The machinery here was like nothing technologically from any period here in Earth’s, comparably short technological history.

There were spacecrafts which looked like sports coupe-sized shuttles. They were all made of a very solid-looking metal and one which definitely does not originate on this planet.

This was obviously the repairs and storage shop for their operations here on Earth. Whilst they underwent their little persona-change, shall we say, I quietly slipped through the complex’s large front doors. I was, of course, still in flight.

No sooner than had I made it outside that I was being pursued by a group who were trying to capture me. Several other persons had also bolted from the plant about the same time as I did. They, too, were clearly earthly human.

This was during the downtime when the general was changing into his blonde bombshell bodysuit. There had been a number of locals who had gathered about marvelling at the spectacle of me in flight as I tried to flee.

Resolved to never be captured, I soared into the air and soon made it over this four-storeyed, green-shingled, steep-roofed building. Stopping to hover over the cover of the roof, I then cautiously made it to the back edge.

Sure enough, I found a number of EHs below who were intently looking up at me. Hovering there, I studied them and considered what should be my next move. Still, they remained below.

The EHs readily turned their bland glazed expression to one of seething rage. Their look was filled with hunger as they were intent on capturing me.

I was not going to be captured by whoever these people were. There were two persons standing there on the roof. Soon, it became obvious that they were engaging in a bit of group mindfuck of me.

They were telepathically trying to convince me to jump. Somehow, they were trying to override my mind. In a bid to get me to jump to my death, they tried to sell me on the notion that I was not hovering in flight.

They attempted to convince me that I was precipitously standing at the edge of the rooftop. Their advice to me was to simply jump and suicide.

According to them, it was the least torturous options left me at this juncture. Wanting to get away from them, I thought to try and fly higher still.

These EH had the same energy signature as the two EHs whom I had encountered on first flying from the balcony at the South Beach, Miami-like, lowrise apartment complex. When those two human bodysuit-wearing EHs had laughed, they behaved as though of semi-feral hyena stock.

These men, who were trying to mindfuck me, were as if sentries – intelligence agents – whose job it was to police operations and make sure that we mere mortals did not know too much. They also seemed as though, in their lethal singleness of purpose, automatons or even clones.

It took a lot of psychic energy to block out their telepathic invasion. They were trying to wrestle power of my mind and have me act as they wished. As I repelled the negative vortices that they directed my way, it proved quite a struggle. I would not be vanquished.

However, somehow, I did not know if I could actually pull it off. Instead, I decided to simply awake. At this point, I had been flying for longer than I had done to date, in long years.

This was one continuous dream, in which I was almost exclusively in flight. More than 95% of the dream’s progress was passed with me being in flight.

I knew that since there were no trees about to lend me support that the easier thing to do, at that point, was to simply awaken. Too, I knew that were I to have been captured/overpowered by them, I would have awakened with no recollection of these dream experiences.

Dreams, of course, are purely experiential. Much of what occurs during what we loosely refer to as dreams is, at times, more real than the somnambulant dreck we yawn our way through – half the time – in the waking state.

*The intriguing thing about this crystal is that it was the second Madagascan transmitter crystal that I would own. Just as with the other, the first time that I would become attuned to them, I would be left in receipt of the most unique of experiences.

The first time, it was back on November 30, 1988 when I had the sublime OBE (out-of-body experience) whilst still awake. The second, of course, would then result in today’s experiences.

I had gotten a Madagascan, transmitter quartz crystal and a Brazilian amethyst. However, there was something unmistakably potent about these crystals. Both came from the same region and were informed with a strong sense of the Cosmic.

When I awoke, I was enervated but I was not exhausted. The whole thing had been too intense as I desperately sought not to be captured. I was desperately trying to figure out some way to make it out of this harrowing set of astrally projected dream experiences.

**One of the things, which has come to light, since having dreamt this glorious dream, is that both Merlin and I were alive during the Georgian/Regency era. I would discover during my many Michael Overleaves charted that both Merlin and I, in a former life, were musicians at the court of King George III.

I was male with a sparkling personality and Merlin was my female accompanist. I was a soloist singer who was a favourite entertainer at court. How there is a tie-in to that shared past life at the court of King George III and the extra-humans, at this point, is beyond me.

Rest assured, however, that there is a likely tie-in somewhere. It was quite visceral to have witnessed the sagely extra-human as he came to dispense with the other extra-human – the female performer who had not fulfilled her mandate.

These preceding dreams occurred, on Sunday, January 17, 1993, whilst the Moon transited both Sagittarius and my seventh house.

I had slept in the collapsible pyramid with recently purchased crystals. Not surprisingly, this combination triggered astrally projected dreams that took me to points unknown.

Without a doubt, the good burghers whom I encountered were not exactly from Kansas.

So there you have it dreamers, of course, we are not the only ensouled fare in the universe. To really know what’s going on out there, and right here at home, be most lucidly awakened in the dreamtime.

Short of that you may as well go looking for dubious virgins in cloud formations… EHs and their big-sexed plan B notwithstanding, my plan B is love which ever vanquishes fear!